


Without A Second Thought

by WreckkedRekt



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22726822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WreckkedRekt/pseuds/WreckkedRekt
Summary: When Stuart is named Sheriff, he believes that he'll finally get to play the hero he's always wanted to be. But when a group of raiders invade his town, Stuart must  fight fire with fire and is forced to make a pact with Murdoc, the dangerous leader of another group of bandits to fight them off. However, this deal comes with some unforeseen strings attached when Stuart finds that Murdoc's got some bad people after him.Suddenly, they find themselves in the middle of a possible world-ending catastrophe, and Stuart might actually have to become a real hero-- or die along with everyone else.
Relationships: Murdoc Niccals/Stuart "2D" Pot, Russel Hobbs/Murdoc Niccals
Comments: 31
Kudos: 167





	1. Potential

**Author's Note:**

> Aye whaddup, hope u like cowboys

**Phase One: Creation**

The rooster crows three times, pauses, then gives two more.

Every morning, 6 o’ clock, there’s always the shrill cry of that bird to accompany the first rays of daylight.

Its the fifth and final crow that wakes him, always has been. He’s not quite sure as to why, but it’s been that way since he was a kid. Granted, he’s always been a creature of habit.  
Wake up on the last crow. Yawn. Stretch. Sit up and toss his threadbare covers aside. Wonder briefly for the billionth time if he should finally get a blanket that reaches past his shins. As always, decide that eh, he doesn’t really need it. Swing his long legs off the side of his bed and look out the dusty panes of his bedroom window to scrutinize the sandy dunes of the desert outside.  
Stuart blinks slowly, reaching up to knead the knobby back of his wrist against his tired eyes one at a time. He clambers to his feet, all arms and legs as he lazily shuffles his way to his closet door. He picks through his roster of the same three shirts he’s had since his teenage years, getting particularly stuck on choosing between the dark blue and the slightly less dark blue. Before he can decide, the small tattered calender hanging on the closet door catches his eye.

He peers at it closely, hand moving from fiddling with the shirts in front of him to reaching up and smoothing out the wrinkled page.

_Au….Aug..gu..S.._

He frowns. “Oh, come on… ‘fink.” , he mumbles to himself, eyes narrowing. He picks out the letters one by one, the cogs in his head churning wildly to decode the jumble of lines.

_Aug..gu..st. Aug..ust. August. 12th._

He smiles bright, giving a little fist pump.

“Yeah, that’s right! August twelfth! Knew I could figure it out.” , he says, triumph evident in his voice. Another battle of literacy won..he’s doing much better lately. He nods his head to himself, satisfied, staring dumbly at the calender.

August 12th.  
August 12th was today. Neat.

He blinks again. And then his body gives a jolt, arms flailing as he loses balance at the weight of his realization. He catches himself on the metal rod running across the interior of his closet that holds up his shirts. It gives a harsh groan at the sudden onslaught of weight as he struggles to regain his footing.

“Oh no! August t-twelfth! Thats today! _Today_ is August twelfth! _Shit_!”

There’s a loud crack from inside the closet as the pole gives way and snaps off one of the sides its precariously fixed to. Stuart lets out a yelp as he crashes to the dusty floor, his shirts falling to pile on-top of him along with his small collection of trousers. The pole, slipping free from his grasp in all the commotion, bounces off the top his head before hitting the ground with a hollow, metal clatter. It rolls away and under the bed as Stuart sits, covered in a layer of shirts and pants, the fresh whack to his noggin leaving him dizzy and somewhat stunned. After a moment however, he snaps out of it with a shake of his head, throwing clothes off of him left and right in a frenzy. He jumps to his feet, bolting to the door and rushing down the stairs as quickly as his clumsy feet will take him.

  
He jumps over the last couple of steps, socked feet sliding on the floor and carrying him straight into a wall. He manages to narrowly avoid hitting his face against the old wood paneling, but knocks a lopsided picture frame noisily to the ground instead. He pays this no mind though, as he was too busy already scrambling around the corner and into the kitchen.

The aroma of cornmeal permeates the air around him as soon as he steps into the small space. There’s a soft clatter of dishes as Stuart’s mother cooks, the woman currently facing away from him as she brews their morning cup of coffee. The usual dreary atmosphere that hung like a heavy wool blanket over the interior of their house was always imperceptible in the mornings. Stuart’s mother had every curtain pulled open. Fresh sunshine streamed in from all angles, coating the melancholy browns and blacks of their home in shades of yellow and warm gold. This mixed well with the smells of simmering food in the cast iron pot hung above the fire. Dried meat roasted on the hearth. The room was warm and smoky, familiar and inviting enough for Stuart to almost forget his hurry. Almost.

“Mother!” , he exclaims, voice loud enough to make the poor lady practically jump out of her boots.

“S-Stuart!!” , she gasps, coffee grounds flying up in a gritty, brown cloud as her hands flap in surprise. She frowns, turning sharply to face him, one hand coming up to press over her surely pounding heart. Her other hand, brown with now spilt grounds, comes up to wipe at her sweaty forehead. It leaves a smear, unbeknown-st to her. She puffs out her ruddy cheeks with anger, nostrils flaring, “ _Stuart Harold Pot_! Don’t you scare me like that! What on earth are you thinking, barging in here an’ yelling like that?!”

Stuart doesn’t spare the question a thought, instead he waves his hands with urgency. “Mum! Its daybreak! My vest? Where’s my vest? Ive got to get down to the Mayor’s office!”

  
His eyes dart down to spot a hunk of bread laying neatly in a basket on the table. Grabbing it, he takes as large of a bite as he can, not even waiting to chew or swallow before continuing, “I was supposed to be there before sun-up!”

His mother frowns at him. “Your vest? Why, its out on the clothesline. I washed it like you said, but its not done dr—”

Stuart nods his head quickly, scarfing down as many mouthfuls of bread as he can before tossing the rest back into the basket. His mother pulls a face at that. “Thanks, Mum! Bye, Mum!”

He’s heading for the door as fast as he can, but can hardly slide past the table before his mother intercepts him, arms out wide to block any attempt to cut around her.

“Hold it there, Mister!”

“ _Mum!_ Come on, I’ve got to—”

“Stuart I know you're excited, but you're not blind. You're in no state to be running out there like that, still in your underclothes!”

One blink. Two. He looks down just as slowly as the wheels in his head turn as he realizes that yes indeed, he’s clad in nothing but socks and his linen breeches. He looks up at her and nods. “Thanks, Mum!”

The man spins on his heel, sprinting back the way he came as quickly as his body would take him, shouting a “yeah!” of acknowledgment over his shoulder when his mother calls after him to “be careful” and “watch his head”. He bursts into his room, dropping down on his bony knees to rifle shove aside the pile of discarded clothes from earlier. He reaches under his empty shoe rack to pull out the small wooden box tucked there. He pulls it into his lap and Stuart blows across the top of it, coughing when it sends a puff of dust billowing back at him. Brushing the heavy coating of dirt on the latch away with his thumb, he unlocks and opens it. He smiles softly down at the clothes inside. A brand new shirt, snow white, pressed, and clean. Cuffs and collar starched and pristine. Trousers the color of rich chocolate. Sleeve garters. And most prized of all; a pair of gleaming Oxford shoes. They were two toned, mostly chestnut in color, seams lined with decorative broguing. So flawless in their sheen that Stuart could’ve sworn they had been polished but a moment ago.

Stuart lifts one of the pair up, holding it close to his chest.

His father had bought him these long ago when he was a child. Put them in a box before Stuart could see and gave it to him with a wag of his finger and a stern “Do Not Open This”. Stuart had spent hours, days, weeks agonizing over what could be inside. Eventually the only thing he could do was shove the thing into a dark corner of his closet and try to forget it— which he managed to do rather successfully. It was only recently had his father revealed when to open the secret treasure and why. And Stuart couldn’t be more thrilled.

He wastes no time in getting dressed, pulling on the new ensemble as fast as his clumsiness would allow. After a lot of flapping around, hopping, and several failed attempts to tie his own shoe laces, Finally, Stuart was put together enough to look into his cloudy mirror and give himself a once over. His eyebrows furrow a bit at the revelation that his new pants were riding a bit high. They stopped rather short above his ankles. Similarly, his shirt failed to reach much further then mid-forearm. He growls under his breath, turning back and forth in the mirror, pushing and pulling at his pants in hopes that they’d somehow magically manage to fit more properly. When it comes to no avail, he cant help but let out an angry noise through his gritted teeth.

Frustration hits him hard in the stomach. It knocks aside all his joy, all his anticipation, and crushes it— making his throat feel unnaturally tight. Why did this always have to be a damn problem? Too tall. Too skinny. Too lanky. Hardly any pants could fit his narrow build, and if they did then they’d almost never be long enough. Thus growing up, he had doomed to the never ending cycle of wearing whatever measly handful of shirts and pants fit him at the time. But these clothes were supposed to be special! They were supposed to be perfect! And just in time for..

“Oh…For the love of..!” , he mutters, hands coming up to hastily roll the damned things up, tucking them under the sleeve garters so his sleeves would rest just over his elbow. He glances out the window where the sunlight was growing stronger by the minute. He didn't have the time to be upset over this, as much as he’d like to. He had to get down to the Mayor’s.

Stuart presses his palms over his eyes, giving himself a moment to stomach his disappointment and anger, hands dragging them down the length of his face before finally dropping to his sides.

“Alright…” , he sighs, giving his reflection a long look, “Right, Okay…”

Stuart reaches down, long fingers roughly shoving his undone laces into his shoes, tucking them as tightly as he could under the tongue so that he wouldn't trip.

  
He’s back down the stairs in no time, dodging back around the corner to the kitchen. His mother, prepared this time, is standing beside the table with a cup of coffee in her hands. Stuart smiles brightly, the sight easing his earlier agitation somewhat. He reaches out and takes the little tin cup with a bit too much vigor, the dark liquid inside sloshing dangerously close to the rim. His mother circles him, beaming with her hands clasped tightly together in front of her. He doesnt pay this too much mind considering he was much more concerned with chugging his coffee as fast as he could without choking on it.

“Oh _Stu_! You look just _darling_! Such a dapper fellow you’ve become, yessir!” , his mother coos, reaching out go about preening him. She licks her palm and slides it down the back of his hair and he cant help but grimace into his cup at the feeling. Unfortunately for him, that isn't enough because she starts repeating the process; rubbing her damp hands all up and down the circumference of his head. Stuart finishes his drink just in time to make a gagging sound at the gesture.

“Mum! Thats gross, seriously! We dont have the water for me to wash that out!” , he whines, tossing the cup onto the kitchen table.

“Oh please, Stu, honey, dear, you’ll survive, surely! You know I cant stand how your hair sticks up all crazy like that. Not to mention on a day as important as this one!”

Stuart shakes his head, wanting to be annoyed but unable to help but laugh. He steps around her, heading for the door with a wave “Yea’, I know, I know. But I gotta’ go now, ‘kay? Thanks for the cof—”

His mother cuts him off, hurrying after him and looking rather teary about his departure.

  
“But your hair is so long..maybe a haircut? Let me help you shave a little at least. You’ve got just a little bit of stubble right on y--” , shes saying, but Stuart shakes his head. He reaches out, pulling her in by the shoulder for a kiss on the top of her head. He looks down at her fondly.

“Mum, I’m not going off on some crazy quest or some’fin. I’ll be back by dinner. I really gotta go, please”

Her watery eyes blink up at him. She nods, wordlessly, and takes a step back to wave goodbye at him. She wants to say more, he can tell, but he couldn't afford to indulge her this time. So instead he returns her wave and pulls the back door open. Hurriedly, he makes his way down the steps and to the clothesline stretched out a few meters away. He identifies his vest and pulls the thing off its clips with a sharp tug. Pulling it on, he pulls in a satisfied breath at the familiar weight hanging off his shoulders. 

Stuart strides forward, heading for the main dirt road that would lead him to his town’s main street. Holding a hand up to protect his eyes from the unrelenting glare of the sun above, he can start to feel his shirt starting to grow a bit wet were it sat under his vest. Like his mother said, it wasn't dry. The worn leather was darkened with moisture and damp to the touch. He frowns softly, thinking hard.

Would anyone be able to tell just looking at it from far away…? Was wearing a wet vest to his ceremony considered rude?

He gasps quietly to himself, eyebrows shooting up.

“Is it… _illegal_?”

“Is what illegal?”

Stuart can swear he nearly shits himself when he jumps, the sudden voice to the left of him causing him to leap away comically in a panic. His arms fly over his head, one leg raising up as if it’d do any good protecting him. He looks around, spotting no one hiding amongst the sparse, dry brush.

“W-Who —?!” , he starts, but looks down when theres a tug on the hip of his trousers. His eyes slide down to land on a small boy standing there, big brown eyes blinking owlishly up at him. It takes a second for Stuart’s brain to kick in, but when it does he gets a rush of familiarity. He drops his arms and leg down, grinning.

“Oh! Micah! Its you, thank god! Gosh, you know you’re short. Don't sneak up on me, I cant see you right away from up here.”

Micah just stares at him, unblinking, much like how he always does. _Always a bit of an oddball, this one_ , Stuart thinks. Actually, why was he all the way out here—

But Micah repeats himself, “Is what illegal?”

With a breath of relief to compose himself, Stuart walks forward again and points at his chest, “My vest, Micah. It’s wet.”

Micah shoves a small hand into his pants pocket, rummaging around. His big eyes never leave Stuart’s face. _Should he find that weird_ , he thinks to himself, listening to the sound of the boy next to him feverishly dig in his pockets. Micah interrupts this train of thought when he pulls a piece of hard candy out, lifting it up high as to offer it to Stuart. Stuart gives the little piece of candy a once over. _It has some lint on it…_

Gingerly, he takes it with a small smile.

Micah is still looking at him, watching.

Stuart glances down at the candy, then down at the little boy, and then back again. Slowly, he lifts the thing and, even slower, pushes the candy into his mouth, lint and all. Its sour. _Was it supposed to be sour?_ He really wants to believe its supposed to be sour. He gives a little thumbs up.

Theres a couple seconds that pass, but finally, Micah looks away. The moment he does, Stuart spits the candy back into his palm and hastily jams it into his own right pocket as quick as he can.

“Why would that be illegal?” , Micah asks, producing another piece of candy from his pants. Stuart is spared, however, in the fact that the boy eats this one him self.

Stuart shrugs, one hand coming up to fiddle with the flyaway section of hair that hangs between his eyes.

“I dunno.. I was just ‘finking that maybe it'd be considered really…really uh..? Unrespectable, ya know?”

“Disrespectful.” , Micah says blandly, the candy in his mouth clinking loudly against his teeth when he speaks.

“When I go to town its usually for groceries or somef’in like that, not to rub elbows with the Mayor!” , Stuart explains, waving his hands dramatically as he talks. His eyes stay trained ahead, watching as the buildings of Treasure Trove grow nearer as they make their way down the dirt path, “I dunno how all that fancy law stuff works. So what if there’s a law about wearing wet clothes to your swearing in?”

“There isn't, I'm pretty sure” , Micah replies, stuffing yet another candy into his mouth.

“What if I go to hug the Mayor and he realizes my vest isn't dry, Micah? And then his fancy suit or whatever he wears gets all wet too!” , Stuart says, the pitch of his voice raising an octave with anxiety.

“Then dont hug the Mayor.”

“And then what if it _is_ illegal and I'm hanged, drawn and quartered on the spot?! Ohh, imagine the looks on everyone’s faces! They’d be so disappointed in me, Micah! And so, so _sad_! And not to mention my poor Paula--”

Micah looks up to stare at him again, “Mr. Pot, ain't nobody like you though.”

Stuart blinks. He looks down at Micah, hands pausing where they sit mid-air from his raving, “Huh?”

They finally enter the town, passing through the large arcing welcome sign that read “Treasure Trove”. Though now the big wooden letters, now grey and musty with age, looked more like they were announcing the title of a cemetery. Every time he passes it, he wonders what that sign had looked like back in it’s glory days. And had why no one bothered to take care of it? The town buildings loom around them, looking as decrepit and lonely as ever, peeling wood all shades of grey and dirty black. They really seem to match the people mulling about around them. The citizens here always looked just about as hollow as their surroundings.

“Ain't no one in Treasure Trove like you.” , Micah repeats, kicking a small rock out of his path. It rolls away, a cloud of orange dirt following it. “Don’t think any folks would be real sad to watch ya’ get dragged away to get ya’ legs n’ arms get cut off.”

Stuart frowns at the kid. “Well first off, that isn't what that means. To be hanged, drawn and quartered means they string you up and throw coins at you really hard, okay? Like as hard as they can.”

Micah tilts his head thoughtfully. “Uh..I don't think—”

Stuart waves his hand, putting up two fingers as he makes his next point, “Secondly, why would you say somef’in mean like that? Of course the people like me!” To emphasize his point, Stuart gives a wave to an old man as they pass him. The guy keeps walking, hobbling along and hiking his shoulders up further as he goes. Stuart guesses he must not have seen him and clears his throat, “I’m about to be their new Sheriff!”

Micah rolls his head to the other side with a shrug, hands in both pockets, fiddling with whatever rested inside. Probably more candy.

“Yeah but..Ol’ Mrs. Fisher says that your dad cheated to get ya’ in.”

Stuart’s eyes widen. “ _Mrs. Fisher_? From the dry goods shop? She wouldn't say that! Mrs. Fisher loves me! Why, the other day, she gave me a free bag of seed.” , Stuart argues. He gives Micah a cocky little nod of his head, “She even knew _exactly_ what I came there for because I'm her favorite customer!”

“I heard she threw that at your head.”

“Just bad aim. Saved me the trouble of having to walk all the way to the counter!”

“An’ she screamed for ya’ to get out”

“She knew thats all I needed and was saying bye, obviously. You know Mrs. Fisher, she’s… shy.”

Micah says nothing to that, he only shrugs again. Silence falls between the two of them, Stuart awkwardly rolling his shoulders.His hand moves to clasp the opposite wrist. _Did she really say that_ , he wonders, a thin thread of doubt starting to tie a noose around his throat. Why would she? His father wouldn't cheat. His father _couldn't_ cheat. It was impossible, the man was far too noble. He had always raised Stuart to do the right thing, to be kind, and to be honest. There was just…no way. And nobody hated him. Treasure Trove’s residents were a bit reclusive and maybe a bit opinionated, but they weren't mean, not really. They had no reason to hate him, he’d only first come in to town a few years back, and he’d never done anything to upset anyone since. He’d never even set foot in the place before that!

Stuart looks around, trying to catch the eye of anyone passing by. But they all seemed to stay fixated somewhere else; eyes straight ahead or to the side. Looking this way or that. A little ways up or a little ways down. Not once do any of them make any sort of eye contact. _They must all be busy…_

Stuart looks down to Micah again. Seeming to sense this, the little boy lifts his head to look up at him. Well, stare at him. _But that’s just a Micah thing_ , Stuart concludes, and even the odd eye contact from the kid is enough to soothe his fraying nerves for the time being. Stuart smiles.

“Say, you happen to know where Paula is?”

  
.  
.  
.  
.

Stuart pushes open the door of the bank, eyes sweeping around as he steps inside. Its terribly dark, and the moment he breathes in theres an instant itch in his throat. He coughs, waving a hand in front of his face as his nose picks up on the stench of cigarettes. He perks up.

Far across from him, sitting at the one lone stall of the bank, is a woman. Her black hair rests on her shoulders, its color making it hard to pick up in the low light. She brushes it back, lifting her cigarette to her lips; one of the few things clearly visible. They're ruby red, shining as they wrap around the butt of the cigarette and take a long drag. The woman looks up at him as she breathes out, smoke pooling between those bright lips before billowing out in long plumes of white, her dark eyes glittering under heavy lashes.

Stuart swears his heart skips a beat.

“What do you want, Stu?” , she asks, speaking loudly so that her voice carries over to him, “Arent you supposed to be at the mayor’s right about now?”

He gives a small start, blinking a few times, “I—” , he starts, only to choke, Stuart’s eyes watering a bit as his lungs heave and he gives in to a rough bought of coughing. He flaps his hands, trying in vain to clear the air around him. “C-Could you not open a window or somef’in? It’s so dark in here, Paula, you’ve got the all curtains drawn—”

  
“You don’t answer _me_ and I'm not gonna answer _you._ ” , she cuts in sharply. She lets out another puff of smoke as if to signal the end of the conversation, her eyes lowering back to the newspaper in front of her.

Stuart swallows, throat burning. “Ah..Er, yeah. O-Okay. Yeah, I was supposed to be there at sun-up to help them prepare—”

“Then why are you _here_ talking to _me_?”

“Well…that’s because I wanted to ask you to be there. I know you’re working and all but…It’d really mean a whole lot and no one will be going to the bank while—”

Stuart jumps when theres a loud slam, Paula having jammed her cigarette hard against the teller’s desk, roughly snuffing it out. She squints at him. “Stuart, I can’t just leave the bank with no one here just to go to your little party”

He shifts awkwardly then takes a few steps forward. He smiles hopefully. “But you’ve got the keys. You can lock it up like you do at night, then come back after wards.”

“This is my job. _You_ may have never have had to have one but the thing is that I cant just up n’ leave whenever I feel like it.”

Stuart’s smile falters. His lips press into a thin line, struggling to stay positive. “B-But even the Mayor has said that he wants the whole town there, like every year. You went to the last one—”

“Stuart!” , Paula snaps, silencing him. Stuart swallows hard, stopping in place as she continues, her expression hard set, “I know this is important to you. And I know you want me to be there, so I’ll try. Alright? I’ll _try_ to be there.”

Stuart quickly nods, his excitement rushing back into him. Try? That was practically a yes!

”Oh! Paula, that’s great!” , he says, arms flying out. He runs over to her, closing the distance between them in just a few strides of his long legs. He reaches past the open teller’s gate to grab her by the shoulders, leaning as far forward as he could so that he could pull her into a wild, awkwardly angled embrace. Paula makes a noise of agitation, waiting for him to let her go before moving a good few steps backward out of his reach. She clears her throat, patting her hands down the front of her dress.

“Sure, “ , she says, sighing sharply through her nose before waving at him to get back and stop leaning over her counter, “Now would you go, you're—”

But Stuart is already turned around and running out the door, waving goodbye and blowing her a kiss as he barrels headlong out of the bank door. Paula can hear him trip and fall over outside, somebody telling him to “watch it, asshole” shortly after.

“…already late.” , she finishes in a mutter to herself.

  
.  
.  
.  
.

  
Stuart runs down the long hallway to the town hall, breathing hard and quick. He glances at every door he passes, quickly reading the names carved into their surfaces. Finally, he reaches the one labeled “Mayor”. He shoves the door open, gasping for breath, startling the man inside. Stuart grins like a fool, rushing over with open arms, “Dad!”

His father embraces him tightly, squeezing his arms around Stuart and shaking him a bit.

“My boy!” , his father laughs, letting go of him to heartily clasp Stuart’s face in his thin hands. He smiles, kind blue eyes crinkling at the corners. After a moment he lets him go to look at him a bit quizzically, “ _Where have you been?_ Today’s your big day!”

Stuart’s eyebrows turn up, his voice strained with guilt, “I-I know! I’m so sorry, Dad! I woke up late a-and I had to talk to Mum and get to town and make sure Paula…!” He gasps, suddenly grabbing his father by the front of his coat. “Dad! Paula!”

“Stuart!” , his dad exclaims, obviously confused, his hands raised, “Paula?”

Stuart bounces in place, “Paula! The ring! Did you bring it?!”

His father stares at him for a few seconds before letting out a little gasp. He taps his fist in his palm, “Ah! Paula! Yes!” Stuart lets go of him so that his father can reach inside his coat. He rummages about for a moment before producing a small, thin golden ring. Stuart beams, snatching it from him like a greedy child to further inspect.

“Now Stuart be careful with that. It was terribly expensive you know. Real gold. Don't go losing it, haha, please Stuart.” , his dad laughs, though it’s awfully stressed.

Stuart looks up at him, pushing the deep ring into his left pocket. “Not to worry, Dad! You can trust me! I wont lose a thing!”

His father nods, scratching the back of his neck, laughing again. The sound is even more strained. “Thats what you said about Boomer…Still never did find that dog—”

Stuart waves his hands, “ _Dad!_ The ceremony! Where do I go?”

His father snaps his fingers, “Ah! Yes, yes. We finished setting up. All you have to do is wait here and relax until Sheriff Hewlett comes to get you.”

Stuart shakily breathes out, wringing his hands in front of him. He nods his head to himself, shuffling his feet. He looks down at the floor of the mayor’s office and chuckles dryly. “Wow I’m..really here aren't I?”

His father smiles at him, hand coming up to rest on Stuarts shoulder. “You are. How’s it feel, Stu?”

Stuart laughs, shaking his head. He looks at his dad, “It feels….unreal. Like I'm not supposed to be here.”

_Like you cheated_ , he thinks, and a feeling of unease settles in the pit of his stomach like a block of ice. He looks down again. “Dad…Why am I being named Sheriff? I haven't done anything special…And we’re not somef’in like a….a uh..all royalty like.”

Stuart’s father sighs with a shake of his head. “No, Stu, we’re not very prestigious, that enough is true.” , he says, looking away and out the window. A strange look settles over the man’s features, something that Stuart can’t quite read. “No…”, he continues, “Just…a lot of hard work. That’s what got you here.”

Stuart’s eyebrows knit together slightly. Hard work? What did that mean? Why was his father being so vague? 

The more he thinks about it, the more Micah’s words from earlier come drifting back to him. Mrs. Fisher said his father cheated. Cheated..at what? How? He didnt know how any of this stuff worked. Did people vote or did the Mayor choose? Does the old Sheriff decide? His head spins, the coldness in his gut seeping into his chest, anxieties stabbing at his heart. And if he wasnt elected and his dad really did cheat…what did that mean? That Stuart wasn't good enough to be Sheriff? That the only way he could ever do anything, be worth anything, was by lies? _Why hadnt he thought about any of this sooner_ , he thinks wildly, teeth starting to gnaw at his lower lip. 

The more he thinks about the logistics of this whole charade, the more it doesn't make sense. Does it not make sense because of his own lack of legal knowledge? Does it not make sense because its complicated? Or does it not make sense because it _doesn't make sense?_

His heart rate kicks up and Stuart speaks up sharply, “Ay..Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Uh…” , he stutters. _Would it be insulting to ask for his father to clarify? Should he mention what Micah said?_ , “How does…Um...What I mean is—”

There’s a sudden knock at the door, Stuart looking over just in time to see a man step in. He’s wearing a large hat, dressed head to toe in heavy leathers and tassels. The spurs on his dirty boots shine golden, just like the large star pinned to his breast. The Sheriff.

Stuart, momentarily awed by never before having met this man, loses his train of thought and can do nothing but stare as the man makes his way towards them. Hewlett stops in front of Stuart, small eyes looking him up and down. From this close up, Stuart can take in the other man’s gruff appearance. Chin grey and rough with stubble, forehead creased with rows of lines, shabby brown hair. The guy reeks of cigarette smoke.

“You ready?” , Hewlett asks, and Stuart is surprised to detect a British accent. The guy looked so thoroughly western…Like one of those classic Americans he’s always heard tales about. A cowboy. He’s much shorter then him though.

“Ah…m-me?”

Hewlett shoots him a look, one eye squinting. “Who in the hell else?”

Stuart feels his face grow a bit hot. He clasps his hands together tightly “Uh, yeah, s-sorry, yeah. I’m…I’m ready!”

  
Hewlett waves a hand, turning around and making his way back the way he came, spurs and medals rattling with every step. “Let’s go then, you.”

Stuart looks to his father as if for help, but the man only smiles at him, waving goodbye.

Head still swimming with fearful questions and confusion, Stuart can only smile back lopsidedly and give a weak wave back. He looks down, staring hard at the tops of his brand new shoes. The shoes that he had been so excited about…now suddenly they felt like prison weights as he follows the Sheriff out and into whatever came next.

.  
.  
.  
.

There’s a large crowd stretched out in front of him. Supposedly, it’s the whole town. That fact alone is enough to make Stuart sweat, not to mention the sun beating down harshly on them all.

Men and women are lazily fanning themselves with their hands as the Mayor drones on in his speech, Stuart standing awkwardly next to him. What makes it even worse is that the Mayor, a red-faced, pudgy little thing, barely reached up to Stuarts shoulder. Even while standing on a milk crate behind the podium. Count in Stuart’s insanely blue hair with his absurd height, and it made him look like a circus clown standing up on stage beside all of Treasure Trove’s officials.

Sheriff Hewlett stands to Stuart’s right, arms crossed as he shifts the tobacco in his mouth. This guy, though fairly skinny and small himself, looked like an absolute bad-ass next to him. How the hell was Stuart supposed to follow him up? _He looked like an idiot up here…_

Just when he’s weighing the consequences of making a run for it, the Mayor faces him.

“Stuart Harold Pot.” , he says.

Stuart starts, eyes flying open wide. “Yes!” , he answers, much too loudly. There’s a cough in the crowd. Someone sneezes.

“Please put up your right hand and repeat after me.”

He nods, a lump clogging his throat as he lifts a trembling right hand.

“ _I do solemly swear…_ ”

“I-I do…solemnly swear…” , Stuart echos, voice thin and shakey.

“ _That I will support, protect, and defend_ …”

“Th…at I will support, protect…and defend…”

Stuart can hardly feel his mouth moving as he follows every word, repeating the oath back to the Mayor after every phrase. He can hardly hear him with the blood rushing in his ears. His face is too hot. The top of his head is burning. His tongue feels too big in his mouth. He’s lightheaded.

Did his dad cheat? Why is he here? Why does the crowd look so…bothered? Are they just hot? Bored? Do they…do they really not like him?

He’s starting to feel faint just as he catches a glimpse of a black dress in his peripheral vision. Stuart turns his head, heart swelling.

 _Its Paula! Paula really came!_ Apparently the oath is over, because the Mayor is addressing the crowd now as Hewlett steps up to hand over his badge and give a bow. Its all moving in slow motion in the midst of Stuart’s dizzying rush of relief. She looks overheated, her pale face flushed almost as red as her lips. But shes here. She _tried_ , and shes here.

The Mayor is pinning the badge onto his chest, speaking loudly, but it falls on Stuart’s numb ears. He’s beaming. Beaming at Paula.

She sees it, him smiling, and she—

  
_She’s turning around._

The smile drops off Stuart’s face in an instant. _What? Why was she leaving? Its not even over. No, no, no!_ She can’t leave yet, he wanted to propose to her onstage…!

He blinks. He waves his arms suddenly, the Mayor getting cut off as Stuart yells at the top of his voice, “ _PAULA!_ ”

The crowd below gasps, looking around wildly amongst themselves. Paula turns around swiftly, looking up at him. “S-Stuart? What are you—?!”

“ _PAULA CRACKER_!” , he yells, moving to center stage, Hewlett and several officials hastily moving out of his way, stumbling over themselves and looking at him bug-eyed. Stuart drops down on one knee, pushing a hand into his right pocket and feeling around until he feels something.

He hears the Mayor hiss, “What _in the hell_ are you _doing_ , boy?!”

Stuart ignores him, lifting his hand out of his pocket to hold it up, “ _PAULA, PLEASE MARRY ME!_ ”

A sudden hush falls over the crowd. Stuart holds his breath, teeth biting hard into his lip. Paula stares at him, eyes huge, her red face paling. Hot wind rushes around them, throwing up clouds of burnt orange sand.

Absolute silence.

Then there’s the sound of someone laughing. Quietly at first, so much so he can hardly hear it. But it grows. Multiplies. Spreads as the townsfolk burst into an uproar. Laughing…cackling. Laughing so damn hard that some of them were doubled over and holding their sides. Stuart feels suddenly lost, like whenever he bumps his head. Everything is too fast and too slow all at once. Blurry in spots and vivid in others. His eyes leave Paula, his hand coming down robotically to see what he’s holding.

Its candy.  
From Micah.

There’s howls of laughter from everyone around him, voices starting to cut through the torrent of noise to stab into Stuart’s chest.

“I _knew_ a Tusspot would fuck this up!”

  
“ _All_ he had to do was _stand there_!”

  
“I guess the lad is so _brain dead_ he’s gone and thought a hunk of sugar was enough to marry a girl!”

  
“ _Idiot_!”

  
“Maybe if he’s _lucky_ he’ll fall off the stage and hit that head hard enough to _stay dead_!”

  
“Huh? ...N-No…I…” , he mumbles hollowly. Stuart slowly replaces the candy in his pocket, his other hand reaching into his left to pull out the ring. It glimmers up at him in almost mocking, “I h-have..it right here…!”

He looks up for Paula, lifting the ring weakly. “ _Paula, listen, I have it right—!_ ”

But she’s gone, only a space left where she stood just a moment ago. 

Empty.

Filled with nothing but the sound of complete humiliation.


	2. Disoriented

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuart confronts his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whats UP n'yall. Im not dead lmao
> 
> Here's a little buffer chapter. Hope u enjoy emotions.

“Stuart!”

His mother’s voice calls out to him, but it sounds dampened, as if it was being filtered through a wall. The door thrown open behind him bangs loudly against the door-frame. He can hardly see through the thick tears that are glazing his eyes and pouring down his dusty cheeks. The house around him warps like smoke and he can hardly make out the sight of his mother’s hands reaching out towards him. He twists out of her reach, pushing past her towards the stairwell to his bedroom. His throat feels so taut he just might choke.

“Stuart! Stuart, honey, what happened?! _Honey—?_ ”

Stuart rushes up the stairs, hand coming up quick to catch himself against the wall when he trips and stumbles. He stops there, the harsh sound of his own breathing rattling in his ears. Its almost mocking, the sound of his own crying. Its almost as bad as all the laughter still ringing in his head.

His hand leaves the wall to slap over his mouth, trying desperately to snuff out the damned sniffles and sobs. He presses down hard with his palm, harder and harder until his lips start to ache under the pressure between his hand and his teeth. His foot tries to shuffle forward, Stuart trying to feel out where the next step is while he squeezes his burning eyes shut. He manages to find purchase on the next step, but its too near the edge and he slips. He curses when he falls, long legs crumpling hard underneath him. His hand leaves his mouth to grab onto the railing, preventing him from tumbling all the way back down. He pulls in a breath, chest heaving, but it hitches deep inside his lungs and he breaks.

A long wail leaves him, hands coming up to hold his head in his hands. He brings his knees in towards his chest, his body shrinking inward on itself as he sits there , rocking gently, in the stairway.

It doesn't take much longer for the sounds of his mother’s footsteps to reach his ears over his strangled sobbing, her boots thudding quickly towards him. He curls up further, pressing himself against the wall at his side. Tears drip from between his fingers, the space between his palms and eyes saturated with them and making his face feel overly hot and sticky. He feels his mother stop beside him and move to sit down, her dress quietly rumpling against the cracked hardwood. An arm moves to snake gently around his shoulders. Her voice comes next:

“Stuart…? _Please_ take some deep breaths and talk to me.”

His lets out a shuddering exhale, his hands dropping down to clasp tightly at his upper arms. He watches as a fat teardrop rolls off the pointed end of his nose to fall onto his pant leg. It soaks in there. A tiny, darkened spot. On his special pants. _His special…!_

Another sob forces its way out of his mouth, his body shaking with the force of it. “I—!”

He can practically hear his mother’s worried frown, “You what, sweetheart? Did you fall onstage? You didn't hit your head _again_ , did you?”

The question almost throws him for a loop.

Hit his…? _Seriously?!_ Stuart looks at her sharply, blinking hard to clear his eyes enough to make out his mother’s face. Sure enough, shes frowning at him. Anger boils up inside him at her expression. She was talking to him like he was some reckless child. As if, ever since the accident, the only thing in this world that could hurt him was hitting his stupid head again! It was always the first concern. Sometimes it felt like the only concern! _Who would’ve thought there were things in life that could hurt him that weren’t a hit on the head!_

 _Was she dense or something,_ he thinks ruefully _, could she not ask him what's wrong without bringing that up? It was god knows how many years ago for Christ’s sake! Just let it go!_

“I _didn't_ hit my head, Mum, okay?! Do you really ‘fink I’d be crying like this if I did?!”

, he snaps, eyes narrowing. Somewhere deep inside him, a guilt gnaws at him for raising his voice at her. But he can’t stop himself. The words burn on his tongue just as sharply as the pain in his chest,

“I’d _hopefully_ be _dead_!”

His mother recoils slightly, expression snapping into shock.

“S—! _Stuart!_ Don't say horrible things like that!”

He ignores her, skinny shoulders hiking up as he more firmly tucks his arms against his chest. He looks away, glaring at the peeling wall he was leaning against, his voice going bitter, “Why not? Just add it to the list of stupid things I’ve said today.”

His mother’s hand goes to his knee, her eyes imploring. “What are you talking about? I don't un—”

Stuart cuts her off loudly, “Who cares, anyway? Huh? If I hit my head again and died? Not the town, apparently! You should’ve heard the things they said! It— it was if they all despise me. Mum!”

The hand on his knee suddenly tightens. He blinks, Stuart’s eyes swivel back over to when his mother in surprise when she suddenly freezes next to him. Her face pales under her light sunburn. “Why…do you say that?”

Stuart stares at her, tears slowing in his confusion. Why was she acting…weird all of a sudden? Looking like he had just said something he wasn’t supposed to have known. All at once, a memory comes back to him. Micah…saying…— Slowly, almost painfully so, it comes together for him. Stuart’s mistake. The humiliation. All the voices cackling on about how they figured he’d screw it all up. _As if they had already made up their minds that he’d be a failure._

Stuart sits up, eyebrows furrowing.

“Mum..do the towns people… _not like me_ or some’fin?” , he asks, trying his hardest to play oblivious. _Because maybe he was wrong,_ he thinks _, maybe he was just jumping the gun and putting too much merit in some rumors a little kid heard. He wants that to be true,_ he thinks, _it’d hurt far less to assume they were all just…in a bad mood or something. Overheated and overworked. And he messed up and it was funny. Sure, they said mean things but— but everyone says mean things sometimes, even like him just now. They didn't hate him. They had no reason to and his parents would've told him so he could be prepared. So he’d know._

But his mother is looking down now, her face taut with something Stuart can quite figure out. Was it… _guilt?_ Worry? Sadness, maybe…? Why wasnt she answering? All she had to do was say “of course not” and he wouldn’t have to worry about it again. He’d believe her. He would, he wanted to! _Just say “no”!_

“ _Stuart_ …” , she says slowly, but the tone of it is what makes his heart drop through the floor.

“They do.” , he says, his voice so thin that its nearly a whisper, “They hate me. They don't like me, do they…?” He can hardly keep his voice from trembling.

His mother looks at him fast, eyes wide with guilt. Her lip is shaking and her grip on his knee tightens to a desperate vice. “S-Stu you weren't supposed to find out like this! We wanted to tell you, really, ours—”

Stuart draws away from her. He stands, abrupt, brushing her hand off him. The stairs beneath him feel lopsided. He’s stood on these stairs a million times but suddenly they felt alien. Wrong. Unfamiliar. 

“I’ve…got to go to my room.” , he says, his mouth feeling numb when it moves. 

They all hated him..? Why? Did he do something? He had only met the townsfolk a few years ago. He had never even spoken to anyone outside his family before that. For twenty eight years. He lifts a hand to his head, pressing over his right temple, the thrum of his pulse beating against his palm as a torrent of confusion overwhelms him faster then he can process. Wait…twenty eight years he had gone his whole life without speaking to a single soul other then his parents. _Was that…normal? Why had he never questioned it before?,_ he wonders wildly, _Why had he never even thought about it? Was he insane or just that stupid? But he hadn't even known about the town until he was twenty, or at least that people even lived there. Why?_

The pulse in his temple pounds harder under his palm. He feels a bit lightheaded. His mother is saying something, probably apologizing, but he’s not listening. His ears are starting to ring.

  
 _Why did he think Treasure Trove was empty for so long…?_ He racks his mind, and it feels like there's a pressure building up in the back of his skull, pushing up against his throbbing brain. He blinks.

When he was a kid….his kite. It got stuck in the tree out behind the house. He climbed up. It was up at the very top…he climbed up and grabbed it. When he had gotten ahold of it he looked up and just over the crest of the hill there was shapes. More houses he thought. He had no clue that they were there before. And then the branch beneath him broke and he fell and fell and… hit his…head. Really hard.

The pressure in the back of his head reaches a painful ache. Stuart looks to his mother, who is in the middle of saying something like “We didnt know how to tell you—” when Stuart cuts her off hollowly,

“Y-You _told_ me Treasure Trove was empty. You told me no one even lived there when I was little. When I fell outta’ that tree way back when.”

Stuart’s mother swallows hard, hands coming together in front of her to nervously fidget.

“We—”

“Then dad cut that tree down after I woke up. It was so I wouldn't try to go look, huh?”

“ _No!!_ ” , she cries, her voice high with anxiety, “No, no we just didn’t want you to climb up there again and— and get _hurt!!_ You almost _died_ that day, Stu—!!”

“Stop LYING to me!!” , he snaps, his voice raising to a volume that rattles his own ears. His mother stares at him as he pulls in a shuddering breath, hands shaking at his sides, “You! You _AND_ Dad have been lying to me my whole _LIFE_ haven’t you?! Every time I think back further, the more I don't—?! _GET!_ First that Treasure Trove even _EXISTED_ and then when you couldn’t keep _THAT_ from me you told me no one _LIVED_ there!! That it was only _US_ out here! And— and _I fucking believed you!_ Until little ol’ _me_ ruined everything by deciding to go take a walk around and saw _THAT_ was a lie _TOO!!_ And _THEN_ it was _“oh! People have been moving in over the years! We just never mentioned it!”_. I didn't even _THINK_ to question it! I didn't even spare a _THOUGHT_ that you guys, my parents, would ever be _LYING!_ Because I'm just that _STUPID_ aren't I?!”

His mother opens her mouth but he continues, hands flying to his head, fingers twisting in his hair,

“The people out in town have hated me ever since they SAW me that day, haven't they?! And you guys never told me?! You even let me go out there on a _STAGE_ in front of them all, knowing that they all despise me for— f _or WHATEVER reason_! Why would you _DO_ that?! Is it _FUNNY_ to you guys? Was watching me grow up to be such a huge idiot that _entertaining for you?_!”

He laughs but the sound is harsh. Cold and cutting. He blinks and theres more tears streaking down his face to drip off his chin, “It _MUST_ be hilarious, watching me be such a moron. I-It has to be! And the whole _town_ got to laugh with you this time!” , he says, hands sliding down to messily wipe at his face. When he looks at his mother again, theres tears of her own trickling down from her eyes. He breathes out, voice wobbling at th ends of his words,

“Mum… am….Am I even _really_ stupid…? Or did you guys just raise me to be? Because it made whatever you're hiding…easier to keep a secret?”

Silence. Terrible and far too quiet.

His mother’s lips flap wordlessly, Her voice catches in her throat. But after a few moments, he shakes his head.

“…Don't answer that, actually. Please …don’t. Just don’t say anything. I cant tell when you're lying.”

He turns away, a hand dropping down to the stairway railing with a quiet thud as he stumbles his way back up the steps. His mother doesn't follow him this time. But he can hear her crying drift after him.

…

Stuart shuffles down the hall to his room, stepping inside and softly closing the door behind him.

Blearily he looks around the room. The fallen rod from his closet. The pile of clothes strewn about. The empty box where his “special” outfit had rested in for so many years. He looks down at himself, taking in the slacks that didn't reach his ankles. His shirt, now splashed and dotted down the front with tears. His shiny oxfords now dull with a layer of desert dust. _His parents probably spent a lot of money on these clothes_ , he thinks, _Did they have a lot of money…?_

He lifts a hand up, thumbing at the gold Sheriff’s star still pinned to his vest. The glitz of the thing sharply contrasted the worn and cracked leather beneath it.

He didn’t even know whether they were poor or not. _Why…did he know so little about his own family?_

Actually, he doesn't want to think about that. It didn't matter right now anyways. He sighs and walks forward, bending down to start picking up his fallen shirts one by one. He drapes them over his arm, his movements automatic and his limbs feeling oddly detached from himself. _Dark blue shirt goes on the first hangar. Light blue on the second. Yellow on the third._ Next was his pants, which he goes about collecting even slower. His fingers feel a bit numb. He swallows, his throat a bit tight, as he tries to remember the right way to go about folding them.

_Was it…in half? No…maybe the leg went….like this?_

He folds it this way and that, over and under, but none of the attempts feel right and the tight feeling in his throat grows until in unable to be ignored. He blinks hard, lips pressing together into a thin line.

 _It was just slacks. Folding clothes. It isn't a big deal_ , he tells himself, though the stone lodged in his throat refuses to lighten, _he's done it before. He can fold them later. He’s not that dumb. He's probably just tired. He’s just tired._

Stuart rolls his shoulders, trying to relax them as he places the rumpled stack of trousers on the shelf inside his closet. He steps over to his bed, slowly lowering himself down to sit. It creaks softly under his weight, just like it always has. Just like tomorrow the same rooster will crow. Just like he’ll wake up on the fifth one. Wake up in the same house. With the same people.

He blinks slowly, watching the floor between his shoes grow hazy before fresh tears begin to dot the dusty space there.

Everything was the same. But why did it suddenly feel so… _not?_

A huff leaves his lips. _Jeez…real eloquent Stuart. “Feel so not” ? Even your thoughts are stupid._

He lays down, his eyelids coming down to shut over his aching eyes. He lifts his legs up onto the bed, roughly shuffling his feet around until he can successfully kick his shoes off. They fall against the wooden floor with an empty sound, dust puffing up around them where they land. He was so excited about those shoes just this morning. And now they sounded like any two useless hunks of leather. _Why does everything feel like it was laughing at him?_

His whole head hurts. He can feel every beat of his heart in his temples and against the front of his skull. Even with his eyes shut it felt like the room around him was spinning.

  
_Was he too …mean? To his mother? What was going to happen when his dad came home?_

_Did she deserve him blowing up at her like that? What if she really did just mean to protect him?_

_Was he still going to be Sheriff after all that, after he just ran away? Does he even WANT to be Sheriff? Was he even capable?_

_Where did Paula go? Would she speak to him after what he put her through?_

_  
__Why did Treasure Trove hate him? Was it just him or his whole family?_

_And if they hated them, how was he made Sheriff?_

_And why didn't he ask these fucking questions instead of yelling at his poor mother like some horrible asshole? For all he knows, maybe it wasn’t even their fault._

He rolls over on his side, facing the wall. He opens his eyes slowly, his vision looking as if he was looking through thick, warbled glass. A hand pushes into one of his pockets, digging around until he feels metal brush against his fingertips. He pulls the ring out, reaching up to place it with clumsy fingers on his pillow in front of his face.

Stuart stares at it, blue eyes watching the way the gold caught the faint stream of light floating in through a crack in his curtains. It …really was pretty. His brows furrow when the light seems to shift oddly on the inside. He squints a bit, and only now does he realize it was engraved with the shape of flowers on the inside.

  
His throat tightens again and the inside of his chest feels like someone has ran it through with a knife for the millionth time today.

“Ha.” , he laughs tonelessly, quietly to himself as he reaches out with a finger to turn the ring in a way where he could more clearly make out the engraving. _How had he missed it?_ He had seen this ring nearly everyday for months now while planning his proposal. 

His lips wobbles a little when he smiles, “I didn't… even notice.”

Of course he didn't.

Of course.


	3. Uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuart decides to pull himself together

Stuart wakes up early this time.

The rooster hasn't crowed, not even once. Its…odd. In all his years, he couldn't think of a single time that he hadn't woken up to the same routine.

_Granted, things weren't really the same now, were they?_

He can’t remember when his father came home last night, as Stuart had drifted in and out of consciousness for the remainder of the afternoon yesterday. He could vaguely recall the sound of the two of them having what seemed like a heated discussion. Maybe even an argument. Whatever it was, it had lasted for a few hours before the house fell silent again. It had stayed that way for the rest of the evening. Nobody came up to his room. No calls for dinner. 

_Funny, that was another first,_ he thinks blearily, hand coming up to clumsily rub the sleep from his eyes, _he couldn't recall ever hearing his parents fight. Or not having dinner all together at the table. Laughing. Talking about their days._

He sits up, his head throbbing a bit in the temples as soon as he swings his legs off the bed and hauls himself to his feet. Stuart shuffles over to his window, reaching out to pull the curtains aside. Its still dark, but theres the vaguest glow on the horizon. A thin orange line resting on the faraway desert dunes as a thick blanket of night sky hangs above.

He sighs through his nose. Same view. But he’s never seen it at this time of the day.

_Why,_ he wonders a bit bitterly, _does everything feel so surreal and..symb….boli..sym…bolly…ic..? Fuck it. Whatever._

Stuart moves back over to his bed. He sits down heavily, bed frame giving its usual harsh creak. It more irritating then usual this time, though. He reaches out with a foot, hooking it around his shoes to pull them closer towards him. He reaches down to set them right side up before stepping into them. Then he tugs at the tongues of the shoes and shifts his heels around until he’s comfortable situated. Per usual, he jams the laces into the sides and tucks them under his arches. He stares down at them.

At least…these shoes fit him right. They looked far too new and fancy to belong to him, but they did. They were his. And they fit.

He smiles a little at that. His head hurts. His eyes are blurry at the edges. He’s got some dried snot and tears on his face. But, inexplicably, it makes him feel just a bit better.

Stuart nods to himself. He stands again, turning back to his bed. After a little searching and tossing the covers this ways and that, he locates the discarded ring he had left on his pillow while he slept. He stuffs it back into his pocket, but this time he makes _sure_ to take out the ball of hard candy sitting in his opposite one.

“Let’s...not do _that_ again.” , he mutters to himself, setting it on his windowsill. He puts his hands on his hips and looks at it, briefly considering if he should just toss the thing instead. _He sure as hell wasn't gonna eat it after all_ , he thinks, recalling the strange sour taste that was at odds with its caramel coloring. But…Micah did give it to him. Because Micah liked him. They were friends.

Suddenly, theres a little smile on Stuart’s lips again.

_Yeah! He had a friend! He could make more. No matter the reason the townsfolk didn’t like him, they didn't know him. Surely, if they got to all know each other…_

Feeling more energized now, Stuart gives a little bounce on his heels.

“Yes!” , he says aloud to himself, looking at the candy as if it were suddenly a prized possession rather then the catalyst for his existential crisis. It was really early still. He could go talk to the Mayor…or maybe Hewlett ? And he could find out if he still was still Sheriff. If he was a good Sheriff, and became a hero, then the townspeople would HAVE to like him! They’d be more likely to take a chance on a heroic lawman then some bumbling, no-good fool. _And then they’d all be friends!_

The thought makes his heart feel twenty times bigger in his chest, Stuart feeling the determination in him swell until he could hardly contain it. He moves over to his mirror quickly, his hands rushing to fix up his rumpled clothes and messy hair. He scrubs the dried tear tracks and such off his face with the back of his wrist, adjusts the gold star hanging on his vest, and gives himself another once over.

Still…awkward.

_But that was okay! He could own it, he can make this work! …At least until he got some better clothes._

He leaves his room, not bothering to close the door behind him. As quietly as he can manage, Stuart makes his way down the stairs. He glances up and down the hall, only moving when he’s sure there’s no one around. He passes through the kitchen quickly, navigating around the table and seats and various furnishings based off memory alone. Just when he’s sure he’s clear, the toe of his shoe knocks into a bucket on the floor. It goes spiraling with a tremendous clatter and Stuart’s stomach feels like it’s jumped up and crammed into his throat. He freezes and theres a pause before he hears his mothers voice call out,

“Stuart? That you?”

Stuart feels his hands grow clammy. _He should just stay silent._ “U-Uh— No!” , he calls back.

He blinks and then smacks a hand over his face in pure, overwhelming disbelief at himself.

A sound of rummaging and then footsteps start towards him and Stuart stumbles over himself in the dark to get to the door.

_He doesn't wanna talk,_ he thinks frantically, _not right now, not now, NOT now!!_

His feet knock into the bucket at least two more times, the damn thing finally flying away to smack into the wall with a metal clang just as he gets to the door and rushes outside. Stuart doesn't stop; he hops down the back porch steps, skipping the last few entirely with a jump. The dirt puffs up around him as he awkwardly lands, his body pitching forward a bit. He scrambles, arms instinctively jutting out in front of him to catch himself. But thankfully he doesn't fall. He regains his balance and straightens up fast, adopting a speedy pace so that he could put as much distance between himself and his house as quickly as possible.

He keeps his eyes straight ahead. The way in front of him is all blobs of barely perceivable blues and black, the only thing leading him being his muscle memory. Its dark. And..terribly cold. Was it always this cold at night? He should’ve brought a jacket…actually he doesn't have a jacket. He usually borrows his dad’s coat. _Maybe he should go back and ask for i—_

A pang of anxiety, cold and cutting, shoots through his chest before he can even finish the thought. He blinks in the darkness, a frown settling between his thick eyebrows.

_Why was he acting so…weird?_ _Why did the thought of seeing, or worse, talking with his parents make him so…so nervous?_ , he wonders, guilt rising in him, Stuart looks back over his shoulder to watch his home shrink into the distance behind him. His jaw sets and he looks forward again sharply. He wasn't being fair. His whole life, he had always looked forward to talking to his parents. They were fun. Nice. Caring.

_Liars,_ something rueful whispers in the back of his mind.

He swallows hard. _Best to not...think about that right now._

…

When he reaches town, Stuart can hear his teeth chattering. He grips his upper arms, his shaky fingers trying to rub some warmth into his biceps through his shirt sleeves.

The sky is starting to lighten, a yellow haze reaching out to mar the endless curtain of stars above him. Hopefully it’d go back to be blazing hot within a few more hours.

The main road into Treasure Trove was devoid of people at the moment, thank goodness, but there was lantern light starting up behind a few of the windows of homes as he passes them.

 _They’d all be awake soon_ , he thinks, and not a moment too soon he feels his hands twist in the fabric of his sleeves. Stuart sniffs, looking down and training his eyes on the tops of his shoes.

_Don’t think about it. He could fix this. Whatever he did, or his family, he could fix it. But the first step was ensuring he was still Sheriff._

Despite this though, he feels the muscles in his throat flex with apprehension. Stuart shakes his head and hikes up his shoulders, hands moving to clasp in front of him. He fidgets with his fingers as he walks as briskly as he can down the street without calling attention to himself. A decrepit sign gently swaying in the right side of his peripheral vision catches his attention. Its hanging, lopsided, by one rusty chain. In peeling paint and mismatched wooden letters it reads _“Sheriff"._

Exhaling through trembling lips, Stuart heads up the few steps to the door. He reaches out for the handle of the door, but as soon as his fingertips brush the worn brass his hand jerks away back towards his chest as if burned.

_What…if it isn't even open right now? Did he even think about that? No, of course he didn't._

His lip wobbles. He lifts a foot to move back and it hovers in place mid-step.

_He doesn't even know how the Sheriff’s office worked. Was it always open? Or did it have certain hours, like at the bank where Paula worked? Why doesn't he know anything? Why had he never asked? Or even wondered? He’s so stupid. What is he even—_

“—doing here?”

Stuart blinks. He hadn't even realized he had shut his eyes tight, or that the office door had opened to reveal a sleepy looking man. He blinks again, the cogs in his head slowly turning until familiarity kicks in.

Hewlett, its Hewlett. And Hewlett is staring at him, one eye squinted and eyebrow raised. His mousy brown hair hangs around his face in a mess and his stubble noticeably darker then the last time Stuart saw him. He’s wearing only long johns and over sized looking boots. And there’s a big stain right on his collar—

Suddenly, theres finger snapping in front of his face and Stuart gives a start, “Eh—?! W-wh—”

“ _Hello?”_ , Hewlett hisses, waving his hands now, “Anyone in that big head of yours? I _asked_ ya’ a question, Blueberry.”

Stuart stares at him dumbly. _Blueberry…?_

It takes him a second, but then it occurs to him that, yes, his hair was blue. Blueberry. Yeah, that made sense.

“O-oh! You mean me! Ahahaha! That’s good one, actually! _Ha!!”_ , Stuart laughs, though the sound is awfully forced and grating on even his own ears. His terrible attempt at laughter awkwardly piddles out and silence falls between them. Hewlett is still looking at him strangely, as if expecting something, his scrawny arms crossed. Stuart swallows. _Right…he said he asked a question._ He scours his mind for any recollection of such a thing.

“Um…right…soooo…to answer your q-question…uhm.” , Stuart mumbles, stuttering, looking down at his hands as he tries to buy himself time.

There’s a sharp sigh and Hewlett’s arms drop to his sides. “Good god. Word of advice, kid. If ya’ didn't hear something, just ask. I’d rather just repeat myself then watch you shake and sweat like a damn dog over it.”

Stuart looks up and nods quickly. “Okay! Um, w-what did you say…?”

“I asked what in the bloody hell are you doing out here?” , Hewlett repeats, “Its not even sun up yet.”

Stuart rolls his shoulders, his throat feeling irritatingly tight, “I just— I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Sheriff. But then I realized that I don't…that I didn't really know how your office works.” By the end of his sentence, Stuarts voice has raised a whole octave. He cringes a bit internally, but there’s nothing to be done about it and its a miracle he managed to get the words out at all.

  
Hewlett gives him another long look, and for half a second Stuart feels like the guy was considering shutting the door in his face. But ultimately the gentleman gives a little begrudging grunt in his throat. He shifts, standing out of the way so he could gesture lazily inside.

“Right. Well get in here then before ya’ freeze your skinny ass off.”

Stuart beams, his frayed nerves dissolving in an instant. _He was so nice !!_

He bustles inside, his eyelids fluttering a bit when warm air rushes up to smother his chilled face. He looks around in awe, having never actually seen the inside of the Sheriff’s office before.

Its dim, as the space was lighted only by the orange glow from an old wood-burner stove in the corner and a single lantern on the desk, but Stuart could make out a few iron bar cells lurking in the shadows. He squints into the darkness, trying to make out if there were any ne’er-do-wells inside, but unable to spot any.

There's a rack of scary looking rifles hanging beside the window, next to a long row of over sized keys. _Why were the keys so big? Did they have to be or was it an aesthetic thing?_ Wooden beams break up the space, reaching up from the dusty paneled floor to the ceiling. There's chairs with cracked leather upholstery. _Yeesh, how old were those? They looked ancient._ There’s a bookshelf that looked more rickety then all of Treasure Trove itself.

Stuart wonders how long it had been since someone had read anything from its selection. _He hadn't tried to read a book in awhile… Maybe he could borrow one. If he touched one of those books, would the whole thing fall apart—?_

There’s a loud “ _Ahem_ ” that snaps Stuart out of his ogling.

He turns around fast. “ _Y-Yes!_ Yes?”

Hewlett peers at him, collecting a coat off the rack near the door. He slips it on as he walks around the perimeter of his desk to stand near the chair behind it.

“You really tend to space out, dontcha Blueberry?” , he asks.

Stuart shifts. Was that…an insult or honest question? After the whole town had laughed him offstage, he’s inclined to assume this man was mocking him. But Hewlett looks a tad concerned, so Stuart decides to risk it and lean more towards the latter.

“Uh…Yeah. I get distracted, I guess” , he says, hands reaching to fiddle with the bottom hem of his vest.

Hewlett nods. “Huh. Figures. You always been that way or is it your…?” , the guy trails off, a pointed finger floating in the air as he searches for the word. Then he snaps his fingers. “Your head thing.”

Stuart frowns suddenly. “Head thing? _What?”_

Hewlett leans against his desk with one hand. “Yeah. You busted your head real good or something when you were a kid, yeah?”

Stuart swallows, his blood feeling like its gone cold in his veins. _How did he--_

“Right scary, it was.” , Hewlett continues, free hand reaching up and scratching at the scruff on his neck, “I remember. Your parents came running into town like mad men, first time I ever saw ‘em set foot in Treasure Trove actually. Don't blame ‘em. Your head looked a mess, said you fell outta’ a tree or something. Blood all over the place. Doc wasn't sure you’d make it.”

Stuart shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and back again. So his parents had taken him into town then? He couldn't remember. By the time he had woken up, he was in his house and his hair had started falling out. They just told him that it wasn't that bad, that his mother had just wrapped his head up. For some reason, the more he lingers on it, the more the bitterness sitting deep in his stomach only grows. He looks to the side pointedly.

“Uh huh, yeah, well. I don't know if its from that or not, so…I couldn't tell you” , he says, voice a bit sharp.

There’s a beat of silence before Hewlett makes a noise of acknowledgment. He must pick up on Stuart’s agitation because when he speaks again, his voice is somewhat more considerate.

“Well. You want some coffee? Its a bit shit, but it’ll warm ya up a faster. God knows I need me some since ya woke me up so damn early.”

Stuart looks at him again, eyes going huge. “Oh! Oh, I’m sor—”

Hewlett gives a little chuff. “Don't sweat it, Blueberry, just busting your balls a bit. Here, I’ll just make you a cup, you can thank me later. Or not. Don't really care either way. Take a seat while I’m at it, alright?”

Stuart watches him go, mouth flapping uselessly when he tries to voice his gratitude. So instead he just nods to himself and steps over to one of the chairs strewn in front of the desk. He sits, his knees resting a bit awkwardly close to his chest. Either this chair was really short, or he was taller then he thought.

His eyes swivel about the room again, taking in any details he might have missed thus-far. Outside the window he can see the sky is now streaked with the first full rays of dawn. Surely the townspeople were up and milling about by now. He looks back to the desk and spies a picture frame. He reaches forward and plucks it off the desktop, Stuart bringing the thing in closer to his face so he could make out the image. Its a woman. She’s rather pretty, dressed in fancy clothes, her hair done up in an elaborate braid of some sort. Stuart smiles softly.

“Nosy too, I see” , comes Hewlett's voice in tandem with his heavy footsteps, the man reappearing with two tin mugs in each hand. Stuart laughs a bit sheepishly, leaning forward to replace the picture back on the desk.

“S-sorry. Is that your wife?”

Hewlett clicks his tongue, rounding around his chair and sitting down before pushing one of the mugs towards him. “No, sir. That’s my mother, long since passed. I don't have any family nowadays.”

Stuart pouts his lip out a bit, taking the mug. “Well that’s…kinda really sad.”

Hewlett shrugs, settling back in his chair, shoulders relaxing against the worn leather. “It is what it is, kid.” , he replies tonelessly and Stuart decides to not push it. Right now at least.

The man brings his coffee to his lips, “Anyhow, all the chit chat aside, you said you had something you wanted to talk to me about?”

Stuart, in the middle of taking a big swallow of his own drink, hums in his throat. “Mm-hmm!” He finishes the whole thing in one gulp (to which Hewlett looks rather impressed by) and rests his mug on his thigh. A warmth spreads through him, ebbing out from his chest to his fingertips. He exhales and smacks his lips a little. Huh. The coffee did kind of suck.

“I— um.” , he starts, but then falters, “ I wanted to…uh.” The more he talks, the more he can feel every word whittle away at his confidence.

Hewlett tilts his head, expression unfazed by all of Stuart’s ineptitude. _He’s grateful for that._

“Were you wondering if you still had the job, maybe?” , the guy asks.

Stuart can only press his lips into a hard line. He nods.

The other man gives a loud, drawn out sigh. He lifts a hand and opens a drawer in the desk. Stuart sits up taller, trying to take a peek at whatever he was digging out like a child. Theres the sound of some minor rummaging before Hewlett pulls something out and sets it down on the wooden desktop. He pushes what looks like a small silver placard on the desk forward a few inches with his pointer finger. He sits back again, talking into his cup as he sips at it.

“Why don't you take a look at that for me, Blueberry, then ask me again.”

  
Stuart shoots the older man a quizzical look, but ultimately his eyes trail down wards to land on the plaque presented to him. Its got something etched across its surface. Three words. He squints, trying to decipher them as quick as he can.

_Sh….sher….if. Sher. If. Sheriff, it must be sheriff_ , he thinks. He moves to the next one, finger coming up to poke at his bottom lip as he concentrates, his eyes darting up to nervously glance at the other man. But Hewlett isn't even looking at him. He’s just looking out towards one of the windows, features relaxed, looking undisturbed. Stuart breathes out, silently appreciative that Hewlett still has yet to get impatient with him. He focuses again.

_S…t…art. No…Stu. Art. Stuart. Stuart. Sheriff. Stuart._

Now the last one…. _Okay. P….P…—_

Abruptly, Stuart jolts to his feet. His empty cup hits the floor as he snatches the placard off the desk, bringing it right up to his eyes. He’s bouncing on his heels before he can even think.

“M-Mister Sheriff! This has _my_ name on it!!” , he exclaims wildly, his bouncing now a full body jog in place. He waves the thing over his head, Stuart feeling a smile so big that it makes his cheeks ache break across his lips, “This says _Sheriff Stuart Pot!!”_

Hewlett snorts. “Uh. Yeah. Took you long enough—”

Stuart cuts him off, voice practically a yell, “ _MISTER SHERIFF THIS HAS MY NAME ON IT!!_ ”

The other man waves a hand, “Whoa there, kid, settle down. Glad you're excited but you're gonna give this old man a headache. Besides, its just Hewll now— no more sheriff.”

Stuart nods and gives a small spin where he stands before dropping back into his seat with a thud. He sets the plaque back on the desk, but his movements are clumsy in his giddiness and its more like he slams he thing down against the wood. He picks his fallen mug off the floor and smacks that, upside down, on the desk also. Hewlett stares at him, wide eyed, as Stuart flaps his hands a bit, flustered and babbling, “S-SORRY!! Oh, I’m shouting, huh?! Sorry, sorry! I just— you have no idea how much this means to me. I was so afraid after…after everything that I ruined everything and that I was fired and, and— Just thank you SO much!”

Hewlett takes a long swig of his coffee, finishing off the last of it before sitting up in his chair, eyebrows raised a bit. “Yeah, well. After you ran off cryin’, we didn't really know what to do with you. It was your dad who went to ol’ Mayor Albarn and begged the guy to keep you in. Not like he had much of a choice considering we don't have too many young men your age up for the job.”

Stuart blinks a few times in confusion, his enthusiasm deflating a degree.

“…My dad?”

“That’s what I said. David did all the sweet talking.” , Hewlett confirms, shrugging, “So here we are. _You_ get to keep that badge pinned on your vest there and this nice little plaque. Congrats, Blueberry. The place is yours.”

Stuart pauses, eyes drifting down to the shiny silver sign in front of him.

_His dad…fought for him to be Sheriff? Why? Because he loved him, thought he deserved it? Or…was there another reason._

That same stab of anxiety rushes through his heart again, and Stuart scowls, hands gripping the knees of his pants.

He doesn't wanna know the answer to that actually. _Who knew if either one of his parents would tell him the truth anyways,_ he thinks, though hes a bit taken aback by the amount of anger behind the thought. _He really needed to think about something else…_

“Um. T-the place is mine? The Sheriff’s office you mean?” , Stuart asks, forcefully pulling himself out from his own head this time.

Hewlett gives an affirmative hum, placing his hands on the arm rests of his chair and lifting himself to his feet with a loud grunt. He stretches his arms over his head. “Yeah. Usually the Sheriff takes up quarters in the back. Bed ‘nd stuff back there. The works. Don't got to, but its an option. Makes things a bit easier considering its kind of a twenty four hour job.”

Stuart scratches his chin, picking at the sparse blue stubble there. “Twenty four hour…? Huh?”

The old man makes a face. “All day, kid. All day and all night. You’ve got to be available to help the people of this town anytime they need you.”

Stuarts eyes go big, blue depths gleaming. He smiles big, hands going to fists. “Oooh! That sounds like that’ll make people HAVE to trust you!”

Hewlett stares at him. Then looks away. And then back to stare at him some more. He reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. “Um. Weird way to put it, but sure. The folk have to trust their Sheriff. Yeah.”

Stuart wiggles in his seat. _This was perfect!!_

Hewlett walks around his desk, picking up the lantern there. He opens it and blows out the flame before setting it down again, smoke gently spiraling out from the open glass.

“Anyhow, I guess it’s good you dragged your ass out here so early. I gotta show you the ropes anyhow and make sure you’re prepared for…”

There’s a small beat of hesitation from the other man that catches Stuart’s attention. Suddenly the other man looked a bit uneasy behind his small eyes. His lips twitch vaguely, as if he was wrestling with some unknown urge to say more. But before Stuart can ask, its blinked away and Hewlett has turned the other direction, shuffling away in his big boots,

“…well, for everything. I'm gonna go get dressed and we’ll head out and start breaking you in, Blueberry.”

Stuart looks after the other man until he disappears around the corner past the cells. He sits back in his seat, mulling back over the details of the morning. Light streams in through the windows, highlighting the dust that hangs in the air and painting the floor in big splashes of white and yellow. He breathes in slowly and then out.

He was Sheriff. It was official.

Stuart can feel another smile creep up from within him to curl the corners of his lips.

  
He looks at the two mugs left on the desk. Hewlett was..actually pretty nice.  
Stuart was going become a friend to the people of Treasure Trove, and he had Hewlett to help guide his first day.

Things were looking up. It would get better. This was the first step. Now he just had to make sure he kept walking forward, _no matter what_.

  
_Thats what heroes do._


	4. Authority

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hewlett tells a story

There’s the rattle of spurs as they walk, but Stuart can hardly hear them above the thrum of his own heartbeat in his ears.

Everywhere he looks theres sour looks. From all directions every pair of eyes he meets are filled with clear disdain. The townsfolk scowl at him, one woman even stops in her tracks when she sees him, turns around, and marches off in the opposite direction.

Stuart swallows hard, his hands coming up to tangle their fingers together anxiously.

He gives a small jump when a hand claps him on the lower back, Stuart looking to his side sharply to see Hewlett frowning at him. The sight of the expression sends Stuart’s stomach into a churning fit.

_Oh god,_ he thinks wildly, _Hewlett probably just realized that being seen with him was going to earn him dirty looks too. He doesn't like him anymore. They're not friends now, are they? Stuart wasn't worth the trouble—_

“Brighten up a bit there, Blueberry” , Hewlett is saying, his voice cutting through Stuart’s torrent of thoughts like a knife, “Don’t let these people get to you, yeah? They’re just being like that because they have _nothin’. Better. To. Do._ ”

The last few words are spoken sharply, Hewlett directing them at a particularly mean looking old man that had been staring daggers at them as the passed. Hewlett is glaring right back, and finally the other man looks down and away with a huff, arms crossing. Hewlett huffs loudly, muttering “rude fuckers, all of ‘em” under his breath before looking back to Stuart with a nod.

Stuart blinks, but his hunched shoulders relax a degree. He nods back and he can’t restrain the small appreciative smile that crooks his lips. Hewlett still seemed to be tolerating him. That was good! _They were still friends!_

“T-Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. Been high time the people around here learn some respect.”

Stuart nods, eyes lowering again when another passerby shoots him a hateful sneer. He focuses on Hewll again, hands wringing in front of him.

“Well,” , Stuart says slowly, “What did you do to get their, er, respect? Maybe I can try something like that!”

Hewlett exhales through his crooked nose, reaching up with one hand to lift a hat so that he could push his messy hair back out of his eyes.

“Ah, well. I _kinda_ …? Kept the town from being…er, burned down bout eh…near twelve years ago. So I dunno’ about replicating something like that. You’ll just have to…—”

But Stuart has already stopped in his tracks. Hewlett keeps walking a few paces, but then realizes he’s no longer being followed. He turns to see Stuart standing there, hands up in fists, his blue eyes huge and gleaming as if filled with stars. A moment of silence passes between them, the only thing changing being Stuart’s smile getting bigger and bigger.

Hewlett lifts a bushy brow. He coughs a little, looking around awkwardly. Finally he asks, “Eh…you good, kid?”

He’s hardly through asking before Stuart cuts him off, voice practically a yell, _“YOU SAVED THE WHOLE TOWN?!”_

A few various civilians look over at all the noise, eyes narrowing. Hewlett waves his hands, hissing, “Aye! L-lower your voice!”

Stuart isn’t listening, and suddenly everyone else around them dissolves into the back of his mind. He bounces in place, stomping his feet in his excitement. Orange puffs of sand billow up around him as he makes an excited noise.

 _Hewlett was a TOWN HERO?! No wonder he had been Sheriff!,_ he thinks, _Who better to be his mentor then a real life hero!! What had happened?! Why was Treasure Trove attacked back then?! God, he just has to know!_

  
He strides over to Hewll, big smile beaming on his face. “Mister Hewll you— I had no clue you were so _COOL!!_ What happened! Y-You GOTTA tell me all about it!!”

Hewlett takes a step back. He looks a bit pink in the face with more then the heat. He fiddles with his hat, which had fallen a bit lopsided in Stuart’s commotion. The older man shifts his weight, “Look, it…wasn't a big deal—”

Stuart snorts loudly. “Are you KIDDING me, Mister Hewll?! You've got to be joking! You SAVED Treasure Trove from being BURNED!”

Hewlett opens his mouth to say something, but Stuart cuts in again, bouncing on his heels. “Oh please, please, PLEASE tell me the story! Please, Mister Hewlett, I’ll do anything!”

The older man makes an agitated noise. He seems to hesitate for a moment before relenting with a roll of his eyes. “OKAY, okay! If you keep your voice down, I’ll tell you, damn it. Just— keep your socks on okay, its really not all that amazing. I’m no hero.”

Stuart pumps his fists wildly. _“YES!”_ , he exclaims so loud that his voice echoes down the busy main road. Somewhere to their left someone shouts “Shut it Tusspot!” and Stuart quiets when he sees Hewlett’s jaw clench. Stuart laughs a little awkwardly, shrinking a bit, “Whoopsie! I-I mean…uh”

Stuart's voice lowers to a whisper, one hand giving a smaller, more reserved fist pump, _“yes!”_

Hewlett gives him a long look before shaking his head, hand running down his face. “Good lord, you’re killing me here, Blueberry.”

Stuart tilts his head, brows furrowing. “Huh? How am I doing that? A-are you dying—”

Hewlett groans loudly, “ _What?_ Ugh, no, its a metap— You know what, forget about it, I’m not dying. Don't worry about it. Now listen up because I’m only gonna tell you this ONCE, got it? Keep walking.”

Stuart nods quickly. He scoots in closer next to the other man while they walk, stooping his head down a bit.

“Alright, so ‘bout twelve or so years ago I came across the town. I was traveling the desert alone. I stopped here to spend the night and rest up. So— ”

Stuart taps Hewll on the shoulder and the older man looks at him. Stuart scratches his chin, picking at blue stubble, “Um, why were you wandering around the desert all by yourself?”

“…Is that really important to know?”

“…Define… _important.”_

“…Yeah. Anyways, I came across Treasure Trove and settled down for the night at Lucy Ann’s inn.” , Hewlett continues, small eyes fixed ahead and narrowed against the dusty wind that buffets them both as they make their way down the street. He moves his hand as he talks, digging around in his bulky jacket pocket until he produces a cigarette. He pinches it between his lips while fetches a match from his belt pouch.

“Real early I heard a commotion outside. It was still dark. People yelling and horses stomping around, it was loud. Went outside to find the town in chaos. Thirty, maybe forty men rushing around making a mess of the town. Shooting up windows. Throwin’ people left and right. They had torches and were yellin’ about turning the place to ash. It was insanity.”

Hewll puts the match free from its crumpled box. He strikes it, lifting the tiny flame up to light the end of his cigarette. He tosses the match into the sand after and makes sure to grind his heel over it as he walks. Stuart stares at him as he puffs on his cigarette, completely enthralled.

He could imagine it. The inky blue early morning sky. The darkness broke only by the wild flames of torches held up high by the intruders, the tongues of fire licking the cold desert air. Hewll, younger, looking around at the frenzy of screaming men and women. Stuart imagines the bandits yelling, their cackles like ice down Hewll’s spine as they announce their plans to destroy Treasure Trove.

It must have been terrifying. _What would Stuart have even done? Would he have even been brave enough to look outside?_

Stuart swallows, “Then what?”

Hewlett exhales, smoke leaving his lips in a twisting stream that fades into the wind. “Eh. Went back inside and got my gun. Rushed to the Sheriff’s office but I found…”

The other man trails off and his repulsion at whatever sight he beheld is palpable, the corners of his thin lips twisting sharply down wards. Stuart’s eyebrows tilt worriedly, but Hewlett gathers his thoughts and presses on,

“I found the..poor bastard dead, murdered. Just…fuckin’ mutilated to high hell. And standing over.. what was left, was the leader of the bandits outside. ‘ Man was a..a monster. A huge brute. He looked unreal, I’m tellin’ ya, standing there. He still had the blood dripping off him, it felt like a nightmare just to even look him in the eyes.”

Stuart’s eyes widen as he listens. Imaginary images flash across the forefront of his mind. Hewlett bursting into the Sheriff’s office, the same one Stuart himself had just been in this morning. The scent of blood hitting Hewll like a punch to the face. A body. Mutilated. He cant even begin to imagine what that would look like and he doesn't want to.

Then Hewlett looking into the dark office to see a man there. Tall and towering. Rivulets of red pouring off him to slop onto the dusty wooden floor.

Stuart’s throat feels a little dry and Hewlett is still going, his usually gruff voice a bit terse.

“I didn't know what to do. I felt like I should try an’ run but he was already walking towards me and let me tell you kid— you just can’t run from a man like that. Ain't nobody in the world fast enough.”

Stuart can see the image of the bandit leader moving towards Hewll, stalking towards him, maybe spurs rattling with every heavy step— like a predator about to close it’s jaws around it’s victims throat. And he imagines Hewll standing there, eyes huge, frozen where he stands, and Stuart’s heart beats so fast he can hardly contain himself and he blurts out,

“D-Did he hurt you?!”

Hewlett shakes his head. “…No. That was the craziest part of all. He just…Shook my hand. Took it in that great big, bloody paw of his and. Shook it like a gentleman. Said he was there to ‘take’ the town. Explained that him and the sheriff had uh…disagreed or somethin’. Apologized for the mess. Said that since negotiations or whatever hadn't worked out that he was going to burn the place instead.”

The older man sighs and reaches up to wipe away a bead of sweat forming on the side of his nose. “Just business, he said. Gotta clear the way, he said. Whatever the fuck that meant.”

Finally the two of them stop. Stuart looks up to see they're outside some type of goods shop. He blinks a few times, then looks back to Hewll, mind still reeling over his story.

“W-What?” , Stuart asks, eyes big, “How’d you stop him then, Mister Hewlett?”

Hewlett looks away. “I dunno’. Just thought of something fast. Guy talked real prim and proper-like and despite it all was being real formal. Struck me as a business man type. So I…took a gamble. I…conducted business.”

Stuart frowns deeply. “Huh? What do you mean ‘conducted business’?”

The older man is still looking away, looking more and more uncomfortable by the minute. “I just pulled something out of my ass, kid. I made a deal with the asshole. Nothing special or clever. Just desperation talking, really.”

Stuart only stares at him further, his hands moving to hang at his sides. _A deal? ,_ he thinks, _With a bandit murderer? That didn’t sound heroic at all!_

“But!” , Stuart interjects, voice raising a degree and earning him a surprised look from Hewll, “W-why?! Why didn't you fight him? You had a gun right? You could of told him to get out of town! Shot him and made his men run!”

Hewlett twitches, expression going blank for a moment. Then he smiles a little and laughs.

“Ha. You're, joking right, Blueberry?” , he asks slowly, only to see Stuart staring at him, jaw set, holding his ground.

The other man’s features suddenly darken with anger.

“Seriously? Did you not hear a word I said, kid? About the forty men outside tearing the town apart, all with guns of their own? This leader guy who had just tore down an armed lawman with a knife and his bare hands alone? What would you have rather me done, yeah? Try and shoot him, fail, and then get Treasure Trove and everyone inside turned into _char?”_

Stuart shrinks a bit, shoulders coming up. _He..didn't really think of that._

The other man huffs through his nose, hand coming up to angrily pluck his cigarette from his mouth, his eyes narrowed to slits,

“Even if I had managed to shoot the fucker, that doesn't guarantee my safety or anyone else’s. The shot could miss or be non lethal, give him enough time to pull me apart like the last sap who “disagreed” with ‘im. He could have a second in command ordered to take over his place on the off chance that he does die. Then we’ve got forty ANGRY men with guns who just lost their precious leader. Now they really want blood. Maybe they’ve decided they wanna gut us all like animals. _Maybe_ they wanna abduct every woman and child, Stuart, and do god knows what to them. What then, huh? What do you do? Nothing! Because we’re all _dead, goddammit!”_

Theres an awful pause between them. Hewlett is glaring off in some random direction, puffing angrily through flared nostrils.  
Stuart looks down, deflated, nervously clutching his hands together.

“…S-Sorry, Mister Hewll.” , he says quietly, “I didnt..think before I said that.”

“Yeah. You sure as hell didn't.” , Hewll snaps, shifting the cigarette around in his fingers so that he could sharply point at Stuart, punctuating his words, “But _now_ you're Sheriff, so you've got to learn how to think about this kind of shit!”

Another heavy silence. Stuart stares down at the tops of his shoes, his stomach up in knots.

_Surely,_ he thinks dismally, _if Hewlett didn't hate him before, he does now._

But for the second time today Stuart is surprised when a hand lands on his shoulder and gives him a hearty shake. He looks up carefully, and sees Hewll giving him some strange look that Stuart can only guess is awkwardly conveyed guilt.

“Listen...uh. I lost my temper with you, that’s my bad. It ain’t your fault. You’ve never had to worry about making a decision with a whole town’s load of people sitting on your shoulders. Its unfair of me to jus’ lay into you like that.”

Stuart sniffs a little. Hewlett’s expression softens further, mostly in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, kid.” , he adds. The older man gives Stuart’s shoulder a rough squeeze before pulling away to hold it out to him, “We okay?”

Stuart looks down at Hewlett’s extended hand and he nods with a little smile. He wipes his clammy palm off on his pants-leg before taking it in his own and giving it a good shake.

“Yeah, Mister Hewll. Thanks. A-and sorry again, for not thinking.”

“It’s fine.”, Hewlett says, shrugging as he takes another long draw of his cigarette. He exhales, “You’re learning and all. And I know growing up on that lonely ranch way out there on its lonesome didn't help you none either. Fuck, you only strolled into town for the first time, like, what? Two years ago? Yeesh.”

Stuart’s thick eyebrows furrow a bit. Its…strange to hear that out loud. It doesn't sound real with the absurdity of it all. The disbelief in the other man’s voice feels oddly validating. But at the same time it makes Stuart’s chest twinge with anxiety.

“Y-yeah. Two years ago…” , Stuart mumbles. He looks at Hewll closely, changing the subject, “You know…you said all tha’ stuff about me not being used to having to make um. Decisions with the town in mind?”

Hewlett finishes his cigarette. He nods his head, blowing his last puff of smoke out of his mouth as he tosses the butt of the thing into the hot sand below. He steps on it. “Uh huh.”

“Well…When you were facin’ that big scary guy…How did you know to not act all im…pul..impishly—”

“Impulsive?” , Hewll offers.

“Yeah! Impulsively.” , Stuart says, eyebrow raising, “You didn’t even try an’ run like I think most people woulda’, ya know? You stayed calm enough to even think of a deal to make with a man who sounds like he was…well, just real violent. With all the…m-mutilating stuff. It just seems kinda—? Weird. Also, you made it sound like you hadn't even been to Treasure Trove before all that, but you cared enough to save the town instead of sneakin’ away back out into the desert? ”

In fact, while he’s talking Stuart remembers this morning, in the Sheriff’s office, Hewlett saying that he remembered the day Stuart was brought to the town’s doctor when he fell out of the tree and cracked his head.

 _But,_ he thinks, _if this happened only twelve years ago and it was the first day Hewll came to Treasure Trove…Then Hewlett shouldn't remember Stuart as a kid at all. He would've been eighteen when the town was attacked, a full seven years past his accident._

Stuart’s eyes narrow a bit. _Was he lying about when he came to Treasure Trove? Why?_ He shifts, watching how the other man doesn't respond or even look at him, and the feeling that he wasn’t supposed to have noticed this discrepancy starts to creep in on him.

  
  
A fierce anger suddenly washes over Stuart and he feels his hands tightening into fists at his sides.

_Why was everyone fucking lying to him?_

“Mister Hewll—” , he starts to say much more sharply, voice raised,

But Hewlett raises a hand to stop and Stuart blinks, going silent immediately.

The older man suddenly looks so…tired. He’s looking away, towards some far off distant point that Stuart isn't even really sure is there. Just this expression alone is enough to knock the wind out of his sails, and Stuart finds his anger leaving him. He thinks about his mother, the way he blew up on her without offering her even an inch to explain herself. How that left him with nothing but a stomach full of guilt, a head crammed with conflicting thoughts, and ultimately knowing nothing. He breathes out a bit awkwardly, hands shoving into the pockets of his trousers. A beat passes between them before Hewlett speaks again,

“…You know, kid. You aren't dumb at all.” , he says with a chuckle, and Stuart’s eyes widen, “You’re real sharp, actually. When you aren't trying to force yourself to be.”

Stuart opens his mouth to speak, but he’s left a bit speechless.

_Sharp? Like …smart? Him?_

He doesn't have much time to dwell on it, however. Hewll continues, rubbing a hand down his face. “I did..leave something out. I didn't lie about the rest of what I said, I promise. I was in the desert before that night. But I had been to Treasure Trove before.”

Stuart watches as the man in front of him anxiously shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“I grew up here, actually. I tried to leave. Didn't…work out too kindly, so I came back that night twelve years ago. As far as all the…staying calm stuff goes…u-uh. I was..raised ...uh—”

, Hewll stammers, the tone of his voice almost sounding pained. It makes Stuart’s heart twinge, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip.

Unable to watch the older fellow wrestle with himself any longer, Stuart shakes his head, waving a hand with a smile. “Thank you, Mister Hewll. Its…okay.” Stuart gives a shrug of his skinny shoulders, reaching up to fidget with the hair at the nape of his neck. “ You probably have a reason, not to mention you’re looking kinda… really uncomfortable right now. Maybe we can talk about it later? Whenever it’s not so awkward for you. I know we’ve been kinda standing out here for awhile an’ you probably brought me to this shop and all for a reason.”

Hewlett gives him an apprehensive look, his eyes peering up at Stuart from under his hat.

“…I won’t lie to you again, okay kid? I promise. You’ve got enough on your plate with being the new Sheriff an’ I don't need to be giving you no trust issues to go with it.”

Stuart laughs a little. “Ah, don’t worry! I think I might already have those at this point! HaHaa…”

Obviously Hewlett fails to find the humor in Stuart’s joking tone, because he only scowls at that. Stuart makes a wheezing sound in his throat trying to clear it.

“ _A-anyways!_ Why are we outside the uh,” , Stuart looks up at the sign. He doesn't bother to try and read it, god knows it might give him a headache at this rate, especially after everything today. He sees the carved shape of a knife and gun next to whatever the words are, “The…weapons shop?”

Hewlett nods, gesturing for Stuart to follow him up the few ramshackle wooden steps preceding the entrance.

“You're the Sheriff now, Blueberry. You're gonna need a piece on you at all times.”

Stuart feels like the air has just been sucked out of his lungs. He stammers, hands growing clammy, “Y— you mean we’re here to get me a _GUN?!”_

The other man only gives an affirmative grunt in reply, opening the door and stepping inside. Stuart hangs back for a moment, heart pounding, but quickly hurries to join him when Hewll makes a loud “ahem”, his foot holding open the door still.

Stuart joins him inside, listening as the bell hanging above the door jingles on its closing. He looks around while Hewll removes his hat and approaches the counter, Stuart’s big, wide eyes taking in the interior of the place. There’s the shopkeep there, a rather dour looking old man. Behind him stands a wall lined with rifles, pistols, and the whole alike of every kind.

He walks forward, the look of awe on his face growing as they approach the counter. He’s so busy gawking at a rather sizable looking hunting rifle that Stuart doesn't even notice the hateful glare the shop keep has trained on him. But theres a slam, and both the keep and Stuart whip around to see Hewll there, his fist having hit the counter-top hard.

Hewlett’s lip curls upwards in a snarl. He talks slowly, deliberately,

“You wanna keep those eyes from getting blackened, Mister Davies? You better quit looking at that boy like that.” 

  
The shopkeep, Mr. Davies apparently, glowers, but looks pointedly away from Stuart. Stuart swallows, eyes flickering back and forth between the two.

“How can I help you, Sheriff Hewlett?”

Stuart jumps sharply when Hewll talks, his voice already a booming yell, “ _’XCUSE me,_ Davies?! You _better_ try that _again!_ Do you see that star on my chest or his? Next time you address your sheriff, you better be fucking look at the right man! And I _KNOW_ you _KNOW_ damn well who that is!”

Davies can only hold Hewlett’s stare for a moment before he lowers his eyes. His deep set eyes shift over to Stuarts direction.

“How can I help—”

“In the eyes, buster, before I come back there and whoop your ass a fucking good one.” , interjects Hewll, voice purposefully loud. Hewlett waves a hand at Stuart, beckoning him to come stand closer. Stuart obeys and awkwardly shuffles over to stand beside the smaller man.

The shopkeep talks stiffly, looking Stuart hard in the eye. Stuart blinks a few times, surprised at how unused to the eye contact he is.

“How can I help you…Sheriff Pot.” , Davies asks, though it sounds more like a flat statement then a question.

Stuart shifts his feet, feeling an odd thrill rush through him at being addressed with such a high prestige label. He straightens his back a little, and in the corner of his vision he can see Hewlett giving him an amused little smile.

“I’m here to g-get…um…I want to purchase a firearm.” He pauses unsurely then tacks on a quick, “Please.”

Davies just stares at him with cold eyes. “Right. What model are ya’ interested in then?”

Stuart falters a bit, his shoulders starting to hitch up again. He drums his fingers on the table top as his nerves begin to take over, his body starting to grow fidgety.

“U-uh…I want….A…” , he stammers. He glances at Hewlett for help, but the older man only gives an encouraging dip of his head. Stuart breathes out.

_It’s fine. He didn't know anything about guns but…so what? He can learn. First steps. Its fine. He’s not stupid, he’s got to start somewhere. Plus this guy wasn't even able to treat him mean with Hewll standing beside him and apparently pretty willing to throw hands with this guy for so much as a wrong look._

Stuart steadies his voice, talking as confidently as he can muster, “What model would you recommend, Mr. Davies?”

The shopkeep crosses his arms, looking away to mull the question over.

“Mm. How much experience you got?”

“M— minimal..”

Davies huffs through his mustache, but gives a small flinch when Hewlett makes an angry noise in his throat and points a finger at him in warning.

The keep grinds his teeth but relents, “Yeah. I got something in mind, you two wait here.” , he says, walking away and around the back corner, albeit a bit huffy.

Stuart looks down at Hewll, who meets his eyes at the same time.

“Good thinking asking for a recommendation. Davies tends to be a bit of an old badger, but the bloke knows his shit. He’ll point you in the right direction no doubt.” , the other man says.

Stuart smiles, feeling a light blush on his cheeks at the praise. “Right!” He pauses for a moment, looking around again before back at Hewll, who’s combing his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Um…would you really h-hit him just because he was being a little rude?”

Hewll makes a scathing noise, shooting Stuart a look of disbelief. “You kiddin’ me? The man was being a downright bastard and you hadn't even said a word to him. You were even admiring his shop!” He shakes his head, eyes closing with an exasperated sigh, “The folks here I swear…they never change, always so stuck in their ways. You haven't done nothing to nobody. They’d see you're a good fella if they'd bother to notice the obvious.”

Stuart’s heart skips a beat at the man’s words. His hands clasp together on the counter.

Hewlett waves a hand. “But to answer your question, yeah I’d deck the son of a bitch for being a _LITTLE_ rude.”

Stuart cant manage to think of any way to even begin to express his gratitude for Hewll’s words before Davies returns from the back, a wooden box in his hands. He takes his place back behind the counter, setting the thing in front of the two other men. Stuart perks up sharply, his attention easily diverted to Davies and whatever rested inside the box presented to them.

Mr. Davies undoes the metal lock with a small key, swinging open the top of the box. He turns it around for Hewlett and Stuart to see, the two of them leaning forward to get a good look. Its a…well Stuart has no clue what it is. Its big, thats for sure. And a handgun, definitely. Its brand new and gleaming, its long skinny barrel shining up at him like a mirror. Its..handle? Or is it stock? or…grip? Where ever you put your hand is white like ivory. Its polished and has a faint marbled look to it.

Stuart cant help the little _“whoa”_ that tumbles out of his lips, which is met by a pleased grunt from Davie.

“Knew you’d like it. That there is a Colt Peacemaker, single action. My only one in stock. Those suckers are worth big money nowadays. Gorgeous thing, ain't it?”

Hewlett looks up at him, smirking, “A little…flashy isn't it? Looks like it should be in a damn art gallery or some shit. And its barrel is long as all hell. Surely he doesn't—”

Stuart shoots up to full height, “I want it!!”

Hewlett stares at him, bug eyed, “Whoa there mate, that thing is seriously expensive—”

Davie laughs, pulling the gun from its lined box to hand over to Stuart, who takes it with careful hands, “What’s it matter, Jamie? The mayor pays for the new Sheriff’s gun per tradition. Besides, the kid likes it! Look at him, his eyes are practically poppin’ out of his head!”

Hewll rushes forward, quickly grabbing the gun from Stuart’s hands, to which Stuart pouts.

“Hey! Mister Hewlett, I want _that_ one!”

“Absolutely not, k—”

  
Out of nowhere, theres a horrible, ear splitting wail sounding all around them.

It catches Stuart so off guard he nearly falls over, the wail blasting through the open windows to envelop them. All three of the men flinch, ducking their heads as the noise screams in their ears. Stuart cries out a little, hands slapping over his ears and pressing down as hard as they can as they start to ring, the wailing noise feeling as if it was rattling his brain against the inside of his skull.

He feels light headed abruptly, like whenever his head gets knocked hard against something. Stuart’s eyelids flutters and he stumbles a bit as a terrible pounding picks up in the back of his head.

Just when he thinks he cant take it anymore, or that he might even pass out from the headache starting consume the interior of his skull, the noise stops.

Stuart pants, hands shaking and sweat beading down his forehead. His ears feel numb, and it takes a few seconds before the echoing whine inside them starts to ebb. He stands up a bit straighter, slowly looking around to see Hewlett staring at him, eyes full of fear.

Stuart frowns a bit blearily.

_Why…does he look so afraid? What just even happened?_

“Hh…Mister Hewlett…? What was th—”

But then Davies is rushing past them both and out the door and outside. Stuart can hardly process this before Hewlett is grabbing him by the hand with one, his other shoving the Colt into Stuart’s palms.

Stuart looks down at it, and his eyes widen in horror when he realizes that sometime during all the commotion that it had been loaded. He holds it away from himself.

“M-Mister Hewll this thing has _bullets_ i-i-in it!!” , he yells, looking over only to see the other man checking his own gun for ammunition. Stuart looks at him, eyes filling with confused terror, “Mister—!!”

“Shove that thing in your belt and lets go! _Right now!!”_ , Hewll barks at him, his shaking hands shoving his hat back onto his head.

Stuart doesn't bother to keep questioning him. Hands slippery with sweat, he tucks the gun as best as he can into his belt until its snug. He doesn't want to think about the live rounds inside. _He wont. He wont think about it. He wont, He wont, He wont._

His skull still feels like its throbbing when the other man grabs him by the wrist, rushing forward to throw open the door and hurries outside dragging Stuart with him as he runs. Stuart can hardly think, everything was blurry and too bright.

He looks around wildly as they rush out into the middle of the street, Stuart watching as the townsfolk around them bustle around. They're all moving to each side of the main road, forming two lines on the left and right side.

Stuart shakes his head hopelessly, the ground underneath him feeling as if it were spinning, “wh…?”

He looks over to see Hewlett grab a woman as she runs past, shouting and demanding “why did the siren go off?! Why are they here, its not the first of the month!”

Stuart stares at them for a moment, but he cant make out the woman’s reply. He looks away, the world moving in slow motion as his eyes look on to see a ...group.

Straight through the arcing entryway sign of Treasure Trove, a group of twenty— thirty— no, forty men and women pour in on thundering horses. Clouds of desert sand kick up all around them, swirling like a giant orange and yellow vortex.

Its slow and fast all at once.

Hewlett and Stuart standing out in the middle of the street. Civilians lined up on both sides of the road, keeping their eyes straight down or ahead. The sound of hooves against the sand is explosive. Stuart can practically feel the sound vibrating inside of his chest, not to mention the riders hooting and hollering to each other.

“M-Mister Hewlett…who…are these people…?” , Stuart asks weakly.

Hewll swallows. Hard and dry. His voice is breathless and shaking, “…Remember that story from earlier?”

“The…b-bandits…?” 

“Yeah. The Blitzkrieg.”

  
The ground below Stuart feels like its dropping. He must be falling. His stomach is swooping up into his throat. And yet he’s unmoving, standing perfectly still except for the slight tremble in his knees. Stuart moves his head stiffly to look back at the entrance of the town when a giant shape catches his attention.

There, on a horse the size of an absolute beast, is a man. A monster of a man by sheer size. The details are hard to make out through all the sand hanging in the air, and the sun silhouetting him from this angle. 

His presence alone is arresting, jaw dropping, and Stuart cant take his eyes off him no matter how much sheer fear the sight of such a man sends through him.

“And that’s— ?’

“Their leader.” , Hewll whispers, just in time for the man to clear the great torrent of orange dust.

Stuart blinks his eyes, honestly not sure if what he’s seeing could be real.

The man’s skin is….green. Quite literally green. A pale but clear and vivid green. It clashes with waves of black hair pushed back into an unruly pompadour , the sides shaved down to a dark fuzz. Theres a large beauty mark resting over plush lips. High cheekbones and a square jaw sharper then a knife.

He was strangely…almost gentlemanly looking, Stuart thinks dazedly, dashing even, despite the…green. Which he still isn't quite sure if he’s seeing correctly. Stuart finds himself only able to watch as the man comes nearer and nearer until he halts directly in front of the two of them.

From this close, Stuart can clearly make out his eyes as he looms over him from up on his horse. They’re dark, almost cat-like in shape. And incredibly…. _deeply_ … _unsettling._

The man smiles suddenly, so suddenly in fact that Stuart physically flinches, sweating.

When he talks its a voice deep and smooth like honey, and its horribly at odds with the fear it strikes deep into Stuart’s pounding heart with every silky syllable.

“Ahhh…Bonjour, messieurs!” , the man says, giving a little wave with his massive hand, dark eyes twinkling, as he smiles a smile too sweet for his sharp features,

_“Are you having a good morning?”_

…


	5. Leader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuart gets to know somebody unexpected.

This isn't happening. Its just not possible.

There’s no way that he's standing here, surrounded by bandits from some fairytale story he had just been told this morning.

What were the chances of that anyways? That this…band of thieves and murderers would waltz into his town on his first day of being Sheriff? It had to be one in a million. Trillion. An even higher number he couldn't think of. It was insane. This was insane! He didn't even know how to shoot, or even load the gun tucked against his hip yet!

Stuart blinks slowly.

_Wait…his gun. Should he be reaching for it right now?_ His fingers give a numb little twitch, but he thinks about what Hewll had just told him earlier today.

He needs to think with a whole town resting on his shoulders. _If he fucked any of this up, then everyone…_

He swallows hard, his throat dry. He can taste the grit hanging in the air on his tongue. His eyes are burning a bit at the corners from the dusty wind that has begun to howl around them, but he cant seem to stop staring. Staring up at the nightmare in front of him.

The leader of the Blitzkrieg is still looking down at him and Hewlett, all three of them standing out in the middle of the main road leading up to town hall. Out of the corners of his vision Stuart can see the gang members shifting about on their horses, all a collection of leers and scowls, sharp cold eyes all trained on them alone. Some of them spit tobacco onto the ground or light a cigarette. Others already have a hand poised over their knives or guns. But not a single one says a word. The people of Treasure Trove are still obediently lined up on either side of the roads, most keeping their eyes fixed down at their shoes. Occasionally one or two will risk an anxious upwards glance.

Stuart has a bad feeling about the silence hanging around them all. _Should he be saying something…?_

The leader is staring down from his horse, big dark eyes shifting from Hewlett, to Stuart, and back again. His head tilts a slight degree, and the smile on his lips widens just enough to show some teeth. They're surprisingly white. Stuart isn't sure he’s ever seen teeth that clean. It only serves to unnerve him more, his stomach squirming uncomfortably at the sight.

“I believe…it is rather customary to return a greeting once one is given… _Oui?_ ” , the man says, his deep voice laced with nothing but sugar. The way he says it is easy going enough, but there's something behind that honey sweet tone that gives Stuart the feeling that his words were more along the lines of a warning rather then friendly advice.

Hewlett suddenly steps forward, a hand apologetically raised. As soon as he moves, the leader’s eyes snap in Hewll’s direction so suddenly that it sends a strange bolt of ice down Stuart’s spine.

“That’s my bad, Hannibal. Y-you just, caught us a bit off guard today.” , Hewll says, lips tilting in a tight smile, “Good morning to you.”

The leader, Hannibal apparently, tilts his head to the other side now, smile still fixed in place. His expression softens however, and now his grin seems to be genuinely amicable.

“Ah, yes! I really do apologize for barging in on you all like this.”

, Hannibal says, eyes closing and sharp brows tilting as he gives a sheepish shrug of his massive shoulders. He opens his eyes again, one hand patting the neck of his horse, stroking and combing its mane absentmindedly with his fingers as he talks,

“Yes, you see I was _juuuust_ in the neighborhood, doing some very important work mind you. And I thought to myself why—!”

He mimics an expression of realization, voice feigning excitement, “ I think I’ll go pay my favorite little Podunk town a visit! Exchange some hellos, have a few drinks at your very lovely saloon over there, and catch up with my good friends Sheriff Hewlett and Mayor Albarn.”

He smiles big, giving a hearty last pat to his horse’s neck before returning his hand to his reins. “I may as well collect this months fee early too! After all, I doubt you want me coming back and disturbing your oh so very interesting lives so soon again, mm?” He nods to himself, “Much more efficient that way. Much more convenient.”

Stuart looks over at Hewll, who’s expression is rigid. The older man’s hands flex anxiously at his sides, to which fails to go unnoticed by the bandit. Hannibal frowns.

“Is that…not ideal?” , Hannibal asks innocently. Too innocently. The concern painted on his sharp features doesn't match the cold listlessness lurking in his eyes.

Hewlett shakes his head and gives a terse chuckle, “…That’s...That’s just fine. Wouldn't want to waste your time, with you bein’ here already and all.”

Hannibal gives him a long look, and this time he doesn't bother to make any particular expression at all.

He just…stares. Face unreadable. Stuart can feel his pulse pounding in his temples. He wants to look at Hewlett but he can’t tear his eyes away from the man in front of him. Nothing is happening, but there's something heavy in the air, invisible and hidden all around them amongst the dust and sand. Something that's making Stuart feel like he’s being strangled and he’s not even the one who those big dead eyes are locked on.

_How long has there been silence?_ , he wonders feverishly. Surely only seconds. But then why does he feel like he’s been standing here for a lifetime? As if poised on the edge of a very steep cliff, watching the ground under his feet cracking but unable to move.

_How on earth is Hewll staying so calm?!_

But then— a sigh. Overly loud, Hannibal has let out a deep breath, a hand going to press over his heart. His eyebrows tilt up as if with relief and his voice reflects a dramatic, deep appreciation. 

“Jamie, you are just so kind to me. So very considerate. What on earth would I do without you, _mon vieil ami?”_

And just like that, Stuart feels like he can breathe again.

Its a moment too soon, however, because now those eyes are sweeping over to fix on him. A smile breaks out across Hannibal’s lips.

“Oh?”

, he practically purrs, Stuart watching in horror as the man moves, one great leg swinging up and over the saddle as Hannibal climbs down off his horse. When the man hops down from his saddle, his boots hit the ground with a such thud that Stuart swears it should've cracked the earth. When Stuart looks down at them, he realizes the man’s shoes where plated in what looks like heavy steel around the toes and heels. He’s never seen anything like them.

Desert sand puffs up around him at the impact, Hannibal straightening up to every inch of his overwhelming height.

Stuart was pretty tall himself, he’s honestly long since been accustomed to being the tallest person in the room. This man only had a handful of inches on him. But when he steps over, walking in relaxed, long strides while the spurs of those strange, heavy boots jingle like funeral chimes, and comes to a stop in front of him— only then does Stuart fully process this guy had to be three or four times his size in mass alone. He looked like he was all muscle under those spiffy looking clothes of his. Suddenly, Stuart feels like he might as well be two inches tall.

Stuart realizes he's gawking and he swallows hard, bringing himself out of his fear just in time for Hannibal to smile kindly at him.

“And who are you? I don't believe I’ve seen you before.”

, Hannibal muses, eyes combing over him, starting from his shoes and up in a way that makes Stuart feel oddly fidgety. The man’s gaze lingers on Stuart’s hair for a brief moment before he continues, voice dropping an octave,

“…yes, I would've remembered someone like _you._ ” 

Stuart’s lips flap uselessly. He jumps a little when a hand lands hard on back. He looks over to see that Hewll has moved to stand beside him, thin lips still pulled into a tight smile.

“Ah yes, well…you see the kid is kinda, er…he’s new in town.” , Hewlett supplies with a chuff.

“New in town...”

, Hannibal echoes. His eyes flicker down to the Sheriff’s badge pinned to Stuarts chest. The corner of his mouth twitches downwards,

“…That so?”

“…Yes. See, its his first day on the job as our, uh, new sheriff. He’s never seen one of y ’all’s visits before an’— ”

“So let me get this straight.”

, Hannibal cuts in, silencing Hewll instantly with the sharpness of his tone. Hannibal lifts a hand and reaches forward to tap the badge on Stuart’s chest hard enough that Stuart flinches, emphasizing his words as he talks,

“ _This_ little fellow here is _new_ in town. So much so that he has _no clue_ as to what’s going on or who we are. Who _I_ am. And you people named him _Sheriff?”_

He doesn't look very impressed and honestly Stuart cant really blame him. Hearing it out loud like that made him want to cringe.

Hewlett gives an awkward little clear of his throat.

”W-well…That’s r—”

Hannibal makes a scathing noise in his throat, shaking his head,

“ _Juste ciel,_ Jamie! I really had more confidence in you and Damon then to pull a stunt like this on some poor sap! He doesn't even know how to _introduce_ himself properly, for god sakes.” 

Stuart feels a spike of anger shoot through him at that last comment and he grits his teeth, looking to Hewll.

The older man only nods apologetically, then gives a jerk of his thumb in Hannibal’s direction,

“Go on, then, kid. Don't be rude. Introduce yourself.”

Stuart swallows his pride and nods weakly, slowly looking back over and up at the man in front of him.

Hannibal only smiles patiently at him. With him standing here so close now Stuart can make out his features in detail and he cant help but think how this guy didn't look like how he’d imagine a horrible bandit murderer at all. He looked too…regal. Almost _too_ perfect— as if he belonged in some fancy painting rather then being a real flesh and blood person. The only possible flaw Stuart could make out was a rather big nose with a sizable bump in the bridge. But even that somehow managed to mix charmingly with the rest of his attributes. An incredibly sharp jaw, square in shape. There's a beauty mark resting just over the right side side of his upper lip. Briefly he wonders if its drawn on or real and gets the insane urge to reach out and touch it to find out.

_…Wait, huh?_ He blinks hard and snaps out of it.

“U—uh. Sorry. Yeah. H-Hi. I’m Stuart.”

, he manages awkwardly, avoiding eye contact by focusing between Hannibal’s manicured eyebrows. There's faint frown lines etched into the skin there. The only perceptible age wrinkles on the man’s whole face as far as he could tell. He really does have nice skin…and it really _is_ green now that he's really looking at it. _Are green people common_ , he wonders, growing distracted again. There’s only white skinned people in Treasure Trove but he’s heard of other kinds. As far as he knew, green could be one of them.

The other man makes a low hum in his throat that pulls Stuart back down to earth, setting a hand on his hip. Stuart can’t help but notice its resting awfully close to a gun holstered there and he feels his stomach squirm, knocking aside all other thoughts.

“Does this Stuart have a last name?”

, Hannibal asks, looking amused. A gust of wind buffets them and a few wavy strands of inky black hair free themselves from the bandit’s pompadour to fly wildly about his face. The lone fact that this man doesn't even blink when the wind blows in their faces only serves to creep him out more. Stuart spits out a few strands of his own hair out of his mouth when they catch against his lips.

“Y-Yes, yeah. Stuart Harold Pot.”

, he says quickly, only to frown anxiously, hands fidgeting at his sides. He’s mumbling now,

“Uh...well you didn't ask for my middle name did you? I mean—”

There's a hard squeeze on his shoulder from Hewll and Stuart takes that as his queue to stop talking. He shuts his mouth fast.

“Sorry Hannibal.”

, Hewlett is laughing dryly,

“He can be a bit of a rambler. He means no disrespect.”

Hannibal laughs loudly. Far too loudly and unnatural, with every _“ha”_ overly pronounced. He waves a hand dismissively.

“Jamie, _Jamie!_ You worry too much, really! You said he’s new in town, it only makes sense he’s a bit nervous. Especially when his superiors have failed so miserably to explain anything to him. No offense taken.”

Hannibal looks to Stuart again, a relaxed smile curling the corners of his full lips. 

“Well, now that you've introduced yourself, it is only fair I return the favor, huh? _My_ name is Hannibal Sebastian Niccals.”

, he says, hand reaching up to run through his windswept hair, velvet voice oozing with obvious pride. There's a slight emphasis on his middle name and Stuart can’t tell if the other man was mocking his earlier slip up or trying to make him feel better about it.

Stuart blinks when Hannibal takes a step forward. He reaches out, hands clasping Stuarts skinny shoulders, large palms easily covering them. He’s— He’s leaning in, eyes closing, and Stuart feels his heart skip what must be a hundred beats.

_Is— Is he going to kiss him?!_ , he thinks wildly, eyes huge as the man draws closer in what feels like slow motion.

He’s never kissed anyone before… _B-But more importantly—! He’s a man! And Stuart is a man?! What? Is that okay? Is he..? Is he supposed to lean in too?_

Stuart is just starting to lean forward without thinking when Hannibal stops short of his face. He blinks as the larger man plants a kiss to the air in front of each of his cheeks before pulling away completely again, his hands returning to his sides.

“It is certainly a pleasure, Monsieur Pot.” , he’s saying, Stuart blinking up at him, shell-shocked. He’s only able to guess by Hannibal’s nonchalant demeanor that the odd exchange must be some kind of social norm from wherever he’s from.

_Huh. …He feels kinda…disappointed? However he’s not exactly sure as to what he’s disappointed in though…_

“Its…It’s nice—I mean pleasurable! Wait, uh”

, Stuart stammers, still reeling a bit. Hannibal raises an eyebrow at him and Hewll is giving him a stare that makes him feel like his bones are melting. He swallows hard and finishes quickly,

“ …To meet you. Too.”

Hannibal doesn't have time to respond before Hewlett is stepping forward, catching his attention.

“Right!”

, the older man cuts in with a clap,

“You said you wanted to get drinks then Hannibal? Let’s do that. Sun is starting to beat the hell outta’ me, that's for sure, and it ain't even noon! I cant imagine how you feel after riding through that bloody desert all day.”

Immediately, Hannibal is smiling. He nods his head, a hand coming up to clap Hewlett so hard on the back that the smaller man stumbles forward a step.

“Ah, thoughtful as ever aren't you? Well...”

He looks at Stuart, looking as if he was suppressing another laugh,

“— Thoughtful to everyone _except_ your new Sheriff here. Anyhow, I accept.”

Hannibal lifts a hand and snaps his fingers. Immediately one of the gang members steps out of the crowd. Stuart watches as he rides forward, a thin rail of a man with puffy blond hair, coming to a perfect stop beside Hannibal’s horse. Its all so very…precise. Even the look on the man’s face looked carefully calculated. Rigid and respectful, shoulders back and sitting up straight like a soldier.

“Guy, “

, Hannibal says, voice terribly friendly despite the fact he was obviously giving a command,

“Would you tie up Kettle for me? Make sure she gets a good spot in the shade. And bring her some water after you all finish doing your rounds here with our lovely civilians.”

The man, Guy, gives a sharp dip of his head. “Yes, Boss.”

“And Guy?”

“Yes, Boss?”

Hannibal smiles brighter. “You’re doing a great job today.”

The man gives another dip of his head, but Stuart notices his eyes flicker to the side and his body language has a bit of a fluster to it.

“Yes, Boss.”

Looking chipper, Hannibal looks to the rest of his group and he gives them a wave of his hand, “Dismissed!” Stuart flinches when the lot of them immediately break into hoots and hollers, most of them waving back or taking their hats off to swing over their heads.

_What the fuck…? ,_ Stuart thinks, watching them in bewilderment _, Were these people really bandits?_ They were acting like a bunch of overexcited children over a wave.

They only seem to calm down when Hannibal and Hewlett begin walking off, their voices growing obscured by the blistering wind picking up. The bandits disperse, breaking up into multiple groups. Some stay on their horses and take up posts on either end of the main street. Others get down from their horses and start milling about the lines of Treasure Trove townspeople, asking them things Stuart cant make out over the wind. Whoever Guy was has somehow managed to already disappear along with Hannibal's horse.

Stuart shifts on his feet, hands coming up to clutch the hem of his vest anxiously.

_What was he supposed to do now…? Why was Mister Hewlett acting so friendly with this Hannibal guy?_ Going off of what Hannibal had said, this seemed to be a regular occurrence that Stuart should already know about.

He thinks hard, mulling over the details of the story Hewlett had told him.

_He had…struck a deal,_ he thinks. Stuart had been under the impression that it was a one and done thing at the time. _But maybe this deal…was still—_

“Oh Monsieur Sher~iff!”

, calls a singsong voice, Stuart looking up fast when he hears it. He blinks a few times to see Hannibal waving at him from up ahead. “What are you doing back there? Come on then!”

Stuart stands there for a moment, astonished, before he gives a fierce shake of his head to clear it.

“Um—! Yes, okay I’m coming!” , Stuart yells back, giving one last glance to the townspeople in the street.

He could only hope they’d be alright…

But first he had to focus, play it safe for their sake. _Maybe he could get some answers from this guy,_ he thinks, steeling his nerves and sucking in a deep breath before picking up a quick jog to catch up with Hewlett and their unconventional visitor.

  
.  
.  
.

There’s the soft clink of glass as the barkeep sets a trio of glasses on the counter for them.

“Whiskey”, Hewlett says, sighing heavily as he situates himself on his stool. He wipes a hand down his face, fingers rubbing the dust out of his eyes as he tosses his hat onto the bar.

The keep nods, then looks to Hannibal next, who isn't bothering to sit. He just leans on the corner of the bar and smiles pleasantly, “Just water.”

Lastly, all their eyes shift to Stuart.

He pulls out a stool of his own beside Hewll, awkwardly clambering onto it. Stuart looks back at them all, a sweat breaking out across the back of his neck. He’s never drank alcohol before. He wasn't even allowed to have certain fruit juices. _Too acidic or too sweet,_ his mother would say, _it’ll ruin your teeth._

_Maybe he should just order water…Hannibal was drinking water and he was a big scary murder man after all. So that must be okay, right? Or should he try to make himself look tough? What did tough guys drink? Probably whiskey like Hewlett. But he didn't want to come off as if he was obviously copying him._

Stuart smiles lopsidedly. “I’ll have…” He thinks hard, but is only able to recall one thing, something his father drank from time to time. He could only ever remember it because of its funny name, “Sarsaparilla…?”

That seems to do the trick. The keep grunts in understanding, walking off to go retrieve the bottles. Stuart breathes a little easier for now. He has no clue what sarsaparilla even was, honestly, but he lucks out when neither Hannibal nor Hewll seem to pay his choice much mind.

Soon their glasses are filled, though the keep leaves the glass water pitcher on the counter for what Stuart guesses is refills. Hannibal spares the man a _“Merci”_ before turning his attention to Stuart.

“So Monsieur Pot. You probably have many questions rolling around in that head of yours,”

, Hannibal hums, lifting his glass to his lips to take a long sip,

_“Oui?”_

Stuart has no idea what a _“oui”_ is, along with any other of these funky sounding words Hannibal keeps dropping, but he just nods. “Y-Yeah. Guess I do.”

Hannibal waves a hand,

“Well, ask away. I’m happy to do Monsieur Hewlett’s job for him since he has done so poorly already.”

In the corner of his vision Stuart can see Hewll’s shoulders shrug up as he scowls into his whiskey. Stuart shifts his own glass in his hands, turning it slowly. _This was his chance, But…how did he know this guy would tell him the tru—_

Hannibal chuckles suddenly, as if he had heard Stuart’s thoughts,

“Ah. You think I’ll lie. I see, I see. Can’t trust a filthy bandit, mm?”

“N-No, I didn’t…I wasn’t—”

“Do not frazzle yourself, _mon ami._ We do not know each other after all.”

Hannibal takes another long drink of his water before setting the glass on the counter. He shifts, moving to lean forward on his elbows, one hand moving to prop under his jaw as the other fidgets with his glass, tilting it this way and that along its edge,

“I don't appreciate being thought of as some savage outlaw. I’m more of an ah, how do you say…a _businessman.”_

Stuart frowns a little. “Business…man? Like…you sell stuff?”

Hannibal hums. “Mm. In a sense. I sell services, you see, not really products. Protection, namely, is my specialty.”

Stuart leans forward a bit in his chair. “Protection from what?”

“Others, of course!”

, Hannibal laughs, standing up straight. He pours himself another glass of water,

“Bandits! Thieves! Raiders! You name it and they're out there. All scheming and skulking around just out of sight— like animals waiting to get their jaws wrapped around any scraps they can. Little towns like _ta jolie ville_ here are easy pickings.”

Stuart blinks. He wants to continue but.. “Uh. S-Sorry, but Jolly..? Jolie..? I don't know those words— ”

Hewll sighs softly, muttering,

“Its not English, Blueberry, He’s speakin’ French. Get used to it”

The bandit laughs again, it’s as loud and unnatural as the first time and Stuart is starting to think it might just be how this guy actually laughs,

“Oh dear! My bad, Monsieur Pot. Jamie is right; I have a hard time separating the two, please forgive me. What I meant was your ah, Treasure Trove? It is small. _Petit._ A cute town, no?” Hannibal lifts his water glass, smiling sweetly. “Yes, towns like this are like candy to criminals. Easy to attack, little resistance and all. But plenty to pillage.”

Stuart nods. He tries his best to mentally log these “French” words for later, but focuses more on the subject at hand. “But aren't you and your people criminals too?”

Hannibal tilts his head, smile suddenly two dimensional. Those dark eyes have just as abruptly become hollow again. “Aha… Who told you that?”

Despite the hot, stuffy air of the saloon, a chill runs through the core of Stuart’s bones. Hewll’s story flashes through his thoughts. The older man himself is sitting stiffly in his seat, dead silent.

Stuart feigns confusion as best as he can, a hand coming up in surrender,

“Uh, No one, Mister Hannibal. Just…assumed—”

“Assumptions are rather rude.”

, Hannibal interrupts, voice blunt, that plastic smile still fixed on his face,

“Lets try to not make any about each other from now on. Okay?”

Stuart nods quickly, feeling his hands growing clammy around his glass.

“O-Okay. Sorry, yeah, I promise.”

Hearing this, Hannibal seems to relax in an instant. His expression shifts back to benevolence, his tone patient again,

“Very good. Anyhow, I suppose you could say the Blitzkrieg and I are certainly not on the side of the law like yourself, Sheriff. However I wouldn't be so quick as to throw us in the same boat as the brutes I am speaking of.”

The man continues, Stuart listening intently,

“Many years ago, I came to this town to claim it for my employer—”

“Oh! _You_ have a boss? Who—”

“The _finer_ details of my work and superior are irrelevant at this moment, thank you.”

, Hannibal cuts in pointedly. He sips from his glass before getting back on track,

“You see Sheriff, across this country there are a handful of groups that control the ah…” Hannibal pauses, fingers tapping the counter top. Stuart guesses he’s struggling with the French and English thing again.

“Control the… _land_ …?” , Stuart offers tentatively. 

Hannibal perks up, beaming at him. He sets his glass down and taps a fist in his palm a few times.

“Yes, yes! The land. _Merci!”_ Stuart smiles a little and Hannibal adds on a quick, “— that means thank you” , with a wink.

Stuart smiles bigger, taking a mental note, while Hewll is rolling his eyes. Hannibal carries on,

“Now, Treasure Trove is sitting smack dab in the middle of a very profitable piece of territory. Two of these organizations are fighting over it, see. My employer is one. The other is a rather sizable operation. The lead criminal institution in the nation, matter of fact. Very bad people. No good at all.”

Stuart makes a noise of understanding, shifting his sarsaparilla from one hand to the other, “ _Sooo_ …you're protecting Treasure Trove from the other bad people?”

Hannibal lifts his glass to Stuart with a satisfied dip of his head.

“Right on the nose, Sheriff. Now you’ve got it.”

Stuart looks down at his drink, eyebrows knitting together a degree as he processes this.

The Blitzkrieg was here to protect the town…? That must’ve been the deal Hewll had mentioned in his story. Hannibal had come to “claim” Treasure Trove for his superior those twelve years ago, which Stuart could only guess meant raiding it into submission. He’d ask Hannibal to confirm, but something tells him it’d be a bad idea to bring up the attack. Hannibal didn't seem to be lying about being a criminal so much as he genuinely seemed to believe he was above that.

But if this was a deal, that meant it had to be mutual. Hannibal would protect Treasure Trove from the other group’s advances while the territory was disputed over. And in return…What did Hannibal get?

Suspicion runs through him, settling heavy in his heart. He looks back up at the other man, who seems to have emptied his water glass already again and is preoccupied with pouring yet another. He had to go about this cleverly. Hannibal hadn't offered up his end of the bargain while laying this out, so there was a chance he had done so on purpose. Stuart shifts his weight on his stool.

This guy sure seemed to think high and mighty of himself. And comparing Hewlett’s treatment of, lets say, the gun shop owner versus Hannibal, it was safe to say there was a good chance the bandit was a big fan of being treated with an absurd amount of kiss-assery. As long as he was sweet talked, he seemed to be quite cooperative. Question was, was Stuart slick enough to pull it off?

He straightens his back a little, and he tries to paint on the same tone he would use with his mother when he wanted to convince her to let him go walk around town. Nice and overly pleasant.

“You seem to do an awful lot for Treasure Trove, Mister Hannibal. You seem like a real generous guy to be doing such dangerous work, protecting us from the bad guys an’ all.” , he says, carefully monitoring the man’s expression as he spoke.

He’s lucky Hannibal seems to be so expressive, because the other man looks positively elated at the praise. He sips his water and waves a hand. There’s a faint color gathering in his cheeks,

“Ah, that’s much too kind... It’s all in a day’s work.”

Stuart nods, smiling, switching gears and thinking hard about how he’d act if asking his father to let him play with his kite. He had to press him,

“Yes, but surely you can’t do it all for free right? I mean. Isn't it only kinda fair that you get some’fing outta’ it?”

Hannibal blinks and looks at him, that unreadable cold haze settling over his face again.

Stuart suppresses the urge to flinch at the dead eyed stare or back down. He had to know. He needed this deal laid out bare, and so far Hannibal seemed to be the one around here who was unwilling to straight out lie to him. _But…,_ Stuart thinks depreciatingly, _he’s not smart. He’s an idiot remember? Stupid. Not smart enough for any of this—_

_Wait,_ he thinks.

_He could use that._

Stuart reaches up to scratch at his chin, playing heavily into his own lack of knowledge. He leans into his ignorance as much as he can, his eyes shifting to the side,

“But I don't know. I don't have any experience in fancy stuff like business, not like you Mister Hannibal. You would know, being an expert. Just what you said sounded like one of those deal thingys? One person does a thing for the other? And they get somef’in back. I think? ”

Stuart lifts his glass to his lips, “but I’m not real, uh…smart. Educated, like you. So I dunno’ if that’s right, really”

_God, was that too much?_

Hannibal is still staring at him. Hewlett is giving him a baffled look too now. Stuart thinks fast, he had to break their attention on him. Like when he’d do something silly to distract his mother from interrogating him on how far he strayed from the house. He looks at his cup in front of his face and immediately takes a big swig. For a moment, it’s fine. Pleasant even. A little spicy. But then its really spicy— actually its burning.

Stuart gags, spitting up a bit before he slaps a hand over his mouth, both Hewll and Hannibal’s expressions switching to surprise and concern.

“You alright there, kid?” , Hewll asks, sitting up, hands awkwardly hovering in the air as if wanting to help. Stuart shakes his head, giving a thumbs up just in time for him to start coughing and sputtering like he’s dying. Honestly it feels like he might be.

Stuart’s throat is on fire, he’s hacking sarsaparilla into his palm, and theres tears gathering in his eyes, but through his blurry vision he can see that Hannibal has seemed to forget his suspicion completely. The bandit fills his water glass, walking over quickly. He sets a hand on Stuart’s shoulder, eyebrows tilted up in sympathy.

“ _Oh la la,_ “ ,

Hannibal murmurs, taking Stuarts glass and replacing it with the water one,

“Please do drink this, Monsieur Pot. Take small—” Stuart tilts the glass to his lips, gulping it down quick. He chokes a few times and Hannibal huffs, “—sips.”

Finally, the burning in his mouth seems to subside, Stuart lowering the now empty glass and gasping. He clears his throat roughly. He hands the glass back to Hannibal and messily wipes the sweat and tears and water off his face with the back of his hand. He breathes out and smiles, voice scratchy,

“T-Thanks Mister Hannibal!”

Hannibal only looks from Stuart, to the glass, and then back at Hewll (who only meets his look with an apologetic shrug). Hannibal gingerly sets the glass on the bar as if it were contaminated, and Stuart gets the feeling that Hannibal won’t be drinking from it again. Hannibal flashes him a gentle smile despite this however,

“…Yes. Well. Don’t mention it.” , he says, wiping the water on his hand from the glass on the side of his pants. He reaches up to dig around the inside of his vest. He produces a red, silk handkerchief, offering it to him. Stuart takes it, using it to cover his mouth as he coughs a few more times. _Wow it’s really soft…_

Hannibal sighs, “As we were saying,”

Stuart perks up. _It worked..!_

“You are right about my services being a…deal of sorts. Keeping Treasure Trove out of the grips of those who wish to occupy it is serious work and I’m afraid that I can only extend my altruism so far. After all, my superior does have a business to run, you understand.”

Stuart nods along in agreement, he remembers from earlier Hannibal mentioning “this month’s fee.” What was the fee? Supplies of some sort?

“Yeah, sure. Makes sense to me. But what could a little town like ours give someone like you and your boss?”

Hannibal snorts a little, “Why, _money_ of course!” 

Stuart stares at him, shocked. That seemed like the most obvious answer but…Money…? Stuart didn't know much about money, but he was pretty sure Treasure Trove hardly had any of it. If they couldn't even afford to fix their signs or buildings all these years, there’s no way they had the money to pay off some outlaw, who he could only guess was charging a lot. Hannibal certainly didn't give him the impression of being someone who cut corners or did things out of the genuine goodness of his heart, no matter how “generous” he insisted he was.

_. . .So where was he getting the money?_

He forces himself to play oblivious,

“T-Treasure Trove has money…?”, he asks. He laughs awkwardly, “T-That’s news to me!”

Hannibal seems to think this is awfully funny, because he lets out another one of those uncomfortably booming laughs of his,

“Oh, I know how you feel! Isn't it a surprise? You take one look at this place and you can practically feel the peasantry!”

Hewll is hunched in his seat, jaw tight. He’s glaring daggers down into his empty whiskey glass.

Hannibal doesn't seem to notice the older man’s agitation, or maybe he just doesn't care, because he continues on, “My services don’t come cheap, Sheriff. But you good people have never missed a payment. Impressive, _oui?_ Every month, never a penny short. Its honestly baffling these people have even a coin to their names to spare. Though I suppose if your choices were to hand over your purses or having savages rush into your homes to string you up by your entrails, then I guess living like a gutter rat really isn't so bad. Don’t you agree?” Hannibal flashes him a so smile full of mirth that Stuart can hardly comprehend it considering what they were talking about.

Stuart swallows dryly. He manages a weak grin.

“Y…Yeah. Haha. Gutter rats and…yeah.”

Hannibal seems satisfied enough, he gives a happy little hum, tapping his fist in his palm again. The three of them blink when the door behind them opens, Stuart turning around in his stool to see a man enter.

Its hard to make out with the blaring sunlight silhouetting him from behind, but once the doors swing shut behind him and Stuart can properly take in the man’s appearance as he strides over to them, he realizes its that skinny fellow from earlier.

“Ah! _Bonjour,_ Guy!” , Hannibal chirps. Guy dips his head, coming to a stop in front of them. His arms are respectfully folded behind his back, but when he talks its with an anxious voice that Stuart wasn't expecting.

“ _Hallo_ , Boss.” , Guy replies, already looking flustered for some reason. He clears his throat and straightens up a little. Now that Stuart was really looking at him, this guy was…tiny. Skinny and short. Next to Hannibal he looked like a twig, and he hardly reached the bandit leader’s shoulder in height. His huge poof of blond hair stuck straight up, giving him a look as if he had been electrified. He looked just about that nervous too.

_He made even Stuart look tough in comparison…  
  
_

Hannibal looks to Stuart, gesturing between him and the smaller man, “Ah yes, Sheriff Pot, this _charmant petit bonhomme_ is Guy. He’s my second in command. Guy, this is Sheriff Pot. He’s taking up the mantle for our good friend Jamie. _Huh_ , Jamie?”

Hewll gives something between a grunt and a growl of affirmation, turning away in his seat. He seems to want no part in this.

Guy looks Stuart over. His eyes hesitate over Stuart’s hair, much like how Hannibal’s did earlier, and for a moment Stuart is sure he’s going to get the usual “why is your hair blue blah blah” crap. But the man seems to follow his boss’s example and he only gives an awkward dip of his head.

“ _Hallo._ ”

Stuart cant help but giggle a little. “Kinda a funny way to pronounce it”

Guy opens his mouth, looking a bit irritated, but Hannibal steps up behind him, slapping a hand on Guy’s shoulder. Guy instantaneously shuts his mouth, face pink.

“Ah. Guy here is a German. His English is— ’

, Hannibal makes a chef’s kiss gesture,

“ _— magnifique,_ but he can say things a bit _funny_ sometimes, its true.”

Stuart brightens up, momentarily forgetting himself, his eyes going huge with wonder, “Wow! German? From like, real Germany? I’ve only ever heard of it! That’s amazing! Wait, Mister Hannibal does that mean you’re from French?!”

Hannibal chuckles. “ _France?_ In a sense, I suppose so. Though unlike me, Guy here is one hundred percent European bred and born.” Hannibal lifts a hand to ruffle Guy’s cloud of hair, “Isn't that right, Guy?”

Guy’s face has shifted from pink to red. “Yes, Boss.”

Stuart is practically bouncing in his seat. “That’s amazing! My family is, uh, British I ‘fink? I’ve got their way of talking but I’ve never been. So, could you like…Say something in German?”

Guy goes to speak again, looking like he has something important to say, but Hannibal is already answering, “Of course he can!” The hand on Guy’s shoulder gives the man a hearty shake, and for a second Stuart swears the little man might topple over.

“Guy, indulge our new friend here _s’il vous plait_.”

Stuart clasps his hands together, suppressing the urge to giggle like a child as Guy nods. The man sighs, looking exasperated, and takes a moment to think it over. He seems to decide on something and smirks a bit when he talks.

_“Guten Morgen. Schon dich zu sehen. Deine haare sid seltsam, es sieht aus wie ein blauer igel.”_ , Guy says smoothly, his anxious pitch completely gone as he speaks.

Stuart flies out of his chair, bouncing on his heels, arms flying out.

“ _H-Holy cow!_ That was _incredible!"_ He looks quickly to Hannibal, “Do you know what he said?!”

Hannibal taps his chin, “Ah, my German isn't as fluent as my French, but…he said _‘good morning. Nice to meet you_ ’ or some such. And then something…about your hair…--”

Hannibal blinks, as if realizing something, then looks down at Guy sharply. Guy only smiles back up at him.

“I just said it looks good!” , Guy supplies happily. Stuart is pretty sure that he’s probably not being totally honest here, especially with the disappointed dad look Hannibal is giving him, but he’s too excited to dwell on it and decides to move on for now. Whatever he said, its probably it’s not something he hasn't heard a million times by now. Stuart grins big and gives a little applause. 

“Whatever it is that you said, it sounded super cool!”

Guy spares him a fake half smile, obviously not very interested in his praise, before looking up at Hannibal, “Anyways. Boss, could I speak to you in private?”

Hannibal steps past him, moving to lean on the counter again with his arms crossed against his broad chest.

“Unnecessary. We are in the presence of the Sheriff and … _Former_ Sheriff. Anything you have to say can be said here.”

The smaller man seems a bit uncomfortable, looking from a sour Hewlett to Stuart with apprehension, but he relents. “Yes, Boss. Well, I’m having some trouble with collecting this month’s fee. Mayor Albarn says the payment isn't ready yet.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, looking amused. “Oh? _Est-ce vrai?”_

Guy nods sharply, hands fidgeting behind his back. “Yes, Boss. He said we were, quote on quote _‘too early’_ and that we should _‘be patient’_.”

All the humor and good nature in Hannibal’s demeanor seems to drain at once. Stuart feels a chill settle around them and he slowly, as to not draw attention to himself, lowers himself back into his seat. He glances quietly over to Hewll, who is looking up now, suddenly engaged. He meets Stuart’s eyes, his expression one of warning. Stuart bites the inside of his cheek and stays silent, refocusing on the other two men.

“Be patient?” , Hannibal repeats, though his sugary voice is now dead flat, “He told _you_ to be patient, or that _I_ should be patient? Which _exactly?”_

Guy somehow manages to brave the bandit’s icy tone without breaking a sweat. _Jeez, he must really be used to this wack-job and his mood swings._

“To be exact, Boss, he said _‘Your payment isn't ready, you lot came early. Hannibal needs to be patient’_.” , Guy says, speaking slowly and deliberately.

Stuart looks to Hannibal, and for a brief moment he swears something about his eyes change. The depth in them disappears for an instant, what he can only guess is anger darkening them to such a degree that Stuart loses track of where his irises end and his pupils begin. He can feel a cold sweat come over him at such a sight— but just as soon as it happens, its gone again. Hannibal blinks and his eyes return to normal _… If you could even call eyes as empty as his normal._

The man smiles, looking unmoved by this information, despite having been blatantly irritated just a moment ago.

“Well.”

, Hannibal hums breezily,

“That’s really too bad. No need to get upset about it though, I suppose. I’ll just have to go and have a little chat with Monsieur Albarn and surely we can work something out.”

The bandit stands up straight again, giving Guy an appreciative pat on the shoulder as he passes him. He motions for Stuart and Hewlett to stand up. Stuart looks at Hewll for confirmation, who nods back at him. They both get up from their stools as Hannibal continues on, adjusting his gloves,

“Thank you very much for the update, Guy. Did you find a nice spot for Kettle like I asked?”

“Yes, Boss. She's resting near the dry goods shop, under the overhang.”

“Gave her water and all that?”

“Yes, Boss. I even gave her an apple.”

Hannibal laughs lightly, addressing Stuart, “Such a spoiled horse, that Kettle.” He looks back to Guy,

“Very good. Pay the good bar keep here for our drinks— and give him a hefty tip while you're at it. Monsieur Hewlett, Pot, and I are going to go visit our _dear_ Mayor.”

Guy gives a small bow of his head, going about approaching the bar and taking care of their tab. Hannibal turns towards the door, making his way out the exit.

“Come along then Sheriff _un_ and Sheriff _deux_.” , he calls, "We can give Monsieur Pot his first lesson as Treasure Trove's lawman for the day."

Stuart looks to Hewlett, who stuffing his hat back on his head quick, lips pressed into a thin line. He wants to ask a million questions, but more then anything he finds himself wanting reassurance. That thing’s will be okay. That this ‘chat’ was going to go as smoothly as Hannibal was acting like it would.

But the moment Hewll’s eyes meet his own; he knows. And there’s no point in pretending or denying.

Something very bad was about to happen.

And there was no stopping it.

.  
.  
.


	6. Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuart accompanies Hannibal to his meeting with the Mayor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features graphic depictions of intense violence and mention of self harm scars.
> 
> Viewer discretion is advised. Read responsibly

The walk to town hall feels like he’s being marched to the gallows. A walk of death.

Every step Stuart takes feels weighed down, as if there were some great brick of lead chained to his ankle. He looks up, watching town hall draw nearer and nearer, like a massive tombstone waiting just for him.

His eyes shift to Hewlett at his side, who returns his anxious glace with one of his own. The older man gives a slight dip of his head, jaw tight, as if trying to force himself to appear as resolved as possible for Stuart’s sake. Stuart wants to thank him for the attempt at reassurance, but he gets the feeling he should be keeping his mouth shut at the moment. To not speak unless spoken to. He moves his eyes ahead, watching the back of Hannibal’s massive shoulders as they walk.

The guy looked…relaxed enough. He couldn't see his face from behind but the man was walking with a long, sashaying strides, hands relaxed at his sides. He even waves to a group of Blitzkrieg bandits as they pass them— who all eagerly wave back.

The only thing disconcerting about Hannibal at the moment was the way his strange metal plated boots thudded against the hard packed dirt s he walked. They sounded so…heavy. Unnervingly so. As if every step was on the verge of cracking the earth below, the rattle of the large glittering spurs attached to the heels only adding to the effect. It made Stuart want to flinch with every footfall, especially as they drew nearer and nearer to their destination.

There’s the sound of a throat clearing beside him, and Stuart looks over to see Hewll piping up, digging around in his belt pouch. Hannibal seems to pay it no mind until Hewlett does it again, louder. Hannibal turns his head only slightly in Hewll’s direction, but not enough to really look back at him,

  
  
“…You have something on your mind, Jamie?”

Hannibal says it friendly enough, but Stuart can’t help but feel incredibly uncomfortable at his words, his hands coming up to fidget in front of him.

Hewll nods, pulling out his carton of cigarettes. He holds them out in front of him, “Care for a cigarette?”

Hannibal slows his stride to a stop. He pauses there, facing away from them both, and Stuart finds himself holding his breath.

But Hannibal turns, an appreciative smile flashing across his full lips.

“…As mindful as ever, _mon vieil ami!_ You know me so well. I’d love one.” , he purrs, waiting for Hewlett to step closer before reaching out to daintily pluck a cigarette from the box. Stuart can’t help but note how absolutely dwarfed the thing is by the sheer size of Hannibal’s fingers alone. Hannibal tilts his head in thanks and places the thing in his lips. Hewll doesn't miss a beat, the older man already having lit a match.

“Here” , Hewll says, “I’ve got it.”

Hannibal blinks before stooping his head down enough for Hewlett to reach up and light the end of the cigarette. Hannibal hums in his throat, looking rather pleased by all the coddling, and Stuart gets the urge to giggle at the way this giant bandit seemed to be so easily pleased by a simple decent gesture, the dread weighing heavily on his shoulders momentarily forgotten. His amusement is interrupted however when Hannibal’s eyes meet his own, suddenly looking apologetic.

“Ah, _excusez-moi,_ how rude of us. Monsieur Pot, did you want one too?” , Hannibal reaches behind him, past one of the pistols hanging off his hip, “You can have one of mine. They are rather strong though, mind you. I smoke like a chimney, ha-ha, most unfortunately.”

Stuart throws up his hands fast. “O-Oh no! I…I don't do that. As in, uh, smoke.”

_He might be able to choke down some that sarsaparilla stuff,_ he thinks, _but inhaling smoke? He’s sure he might actually die….At least that's what his mother always told him._ She wouldn't even let him near the hearth or the fire pit outside. _Breathe in a little smoke now, breath in a lot of dirt later,_ she’d always say before launching into a long lecture about how breathing in the stuff would always lead to an early death.

_…Wait._

The thought suddenly makes him angry. He was thirty years old. Whatever his mom said didn't decide for him. Not anymore.

Hannibal is nodding, politely saying, “I see.” , but Stuart cuts in fast,

“Actually—!! M-Mister Hannibal… yeah. I changed my mind. I’ll try one.”

Hewll is giving him a baffled look, and even Hannibal looks a bit taken aback. But the bandit smiles, reaching behind him again.

“If you're sure then.” , Hannibal chuckles, producing a thin, metal tin from his belt pouch. Its incredibly polished, the harsh sun glinting brightly off the engraved top. He flips it open, picking a cigarette from the bunch inside and extending it out towards him, “Please do try not to spit _this_ up.”

Stuart cant tell if the man is mocking him or just trying to poke fun. Its hard to make out any genuine expression or motive in those big empty eyes. Either way, Stuart just gives a dry little “ha”, taking the cigarette from the larger man carefully. He turns it over in his fingers, studying it, and thinks hard about how he saw the other two men do it. He puts it carefully in his lips, looking to Hewll, who is looking rather irritated as he begrudgingly lights it.

The end starts smoking and it already smells very…not good. Stuart just gives a thumbs up.

Hannibal gives him a lingering look before he puts his cigarette box away and turns towards town hall again, picking his pace back up. Hewlett takes fast steps to walk alongside him rather then behind. Stuart speeds up as well to walk on Hannibal’s other side, playing up trying to figure out his cigarette while he listens carefully to their conversation.

“So, Hannibal. Did you really come early this month just because y’all were in the area?”

Hannibal takes a long draw off his cigarette, breathing smoke out as he talks, “I don't _lie,_ Jamie, if that is what you are implying.”

_He already sounds agitated…_ , Stuart thinks nervously.

The three of them are forced to stop when a line of Hannibal’s men cross the street in a line, each one taking their hat off to Hannibal as they pass him, who just returns the gestures with a smile and dip of his head. Stuart watches them, eyes big, taking in the large guns hanging off most of their hips and saddles. It makes his chest feel tight.

One woman on the end of the line meets his eyes. She’s got orange hair that's pulled up into some kind of frizzy, braided up-do under her hat. She curls her lip at him as she goes by, displaying a missing front tooth. Her nasty look drops when her eyes slide over to meet Hannibal’s, who is giving her hard stare. He shakes his head slowly and only then does Stuart notice she had her hand wrapped around the handle of a throwing knife strapped to her thigh.

Stuart’s blood runs cold in an instant, stomach dropping.

The woman responds with a smile and tilt of her hat to Hannibal, sparing Stuart one last fleeting sneer before following after the troop line.

Hannibal rolls his shoulders and starts walking again, mumbling something in French under his breath that Stuart can’t decipher. He considers thanking the bandit for intervening in…whatever that was, but decides to bite it back when Hewlett presses on, looking undeterred and picking up where they left off,

“I'm _just sayin’_ …You’ve always been the real punctual type. You’ve always stuck to your schedule real organized like. It just doesn't seem to make a whole lot of sense to show up out of the blue after twelve years of— ”

“To me, it sounds like you're still insinuating I’ve lied to you.” , Hannibal comments blandly, shooting a sideways glance at Stuart. Stuart quickly looks away. He pulls in a drag of his cigarette, inhaling deeply. Immediately he regrets it because everything from his tongue to deep in his lungs is burning within an instant. He chokes, sputtering loudly and pulling his cigarette out of his mouth to cough up sour tasting clouds of smoke. _God, this shit really was strong—_

Hannibal looks away again, eyes fixing ahead. Stuart blinks the tears out of his eyes, waving a hand in front of his face as he tunes back in to what Hewll was saying.

“No, I know you haven't lied.” , Hewll persists, voice terse with mounting frustration, “It’s just— sometimes you omit things. When it’s related to your work. Does it have something to do with your boss—”

Hannibal’s head snaps sharply in Hewll’s direction, enough for Stuart to jump and drop his cigarette from his lips. He flails his hands about and manages to catch it, putting it back in his mouth fast. Hannibal seems to have not noticed any of this and Hewlett is busy shrinking a bit under the bandit’s shriveling stare.

“My work, my employer, and their orders are far from something you need to understand the details of. If I have deviated from my, as you say, impeccable schedule then it is safe to assume there is a reason for me doing so. I tell you what _only_ you _need_ to grasp, nothing more and not anything less. If I fail to lay out the intricacies of my every step and move for you, then perhaps it is for a reason, _Oui?_ I do not lie. And your insistence on the opposite is rather insulting.”

Hannibal exhales another plume of smoke, and though Stuart can’t see his face for himself, the look on Hewlett’s own is enough to send a trickling chill down his spine.

“...Is that your goal here? Is that what you wish to achieve with all your incessant questioning? To _insult_ me?” , Hannibal asks slowly.

Hewlett swallows audibly but manages to keep his voice steady, “..No, of course not.”

“Then I kindly suggest you refrain from sticking your nose where it does not belong.”

, Hannibal says, tone cold. He faces forward again and flicks his cigarette with his thumb to clear off some of the ash before taking another drag. He smiles a little, looking a bit too smug in a way that rubs Stuart the wrong way,

“ Besides… you do not have the right to ask me about such things anymore, seeing as you have been replaced the lawman here. I like you Jamie, I respect you, man to man. But that said, you no longer possess any authoritative power in this town. Thus, I do not have to indulge a single ounce of your flippant prying, as it not your concern. _Comprenez vous?”_

Stuart is sure that if this had been anyone else, Hewll would've blown a gasket. But instead, in the face of this towering, pompous asshole, he only looks thoroughly beaten. He’s only known Hewll for hardly a day, but the way the older man deflates and looks down in defeat is… strange and uncharacteristic. 

“…Yeah. I got it, Hannibal.” , Hewlett mumbles.

Hannibal immediately beams, all of those oddly pearly white teeth on display, “ _Fantastique!_ As always, I can rely on you to be so understanding. But please refrain from speaking out of place again. It is a bit of a, ah…a _peeve_ of mine, as I’m sure you very well know by now.”

Hewll just gives another mumbled “yeah” and Hannibal claps him on the back hard enough for the smaller man to stumble.

“ _Merci,_ Jamie! I’m grateful.”

Stuart can see Hewlett grit his teeth, but Hannibal isn't looking at him anymore. He’s shifted his focus over to Stuart.

“Now… you know who _is_ the sheriff here? _You!”_

Hannibal finishes off his cigarette with one last inhale, tossing the butt away to the sand below. His boot comes down hard on top of it, and this time Stuart really does wince at the sound of it, watching with a dry mouth as Hannibal grinds it down into the dirt with his heel. He looks up to see Hannibal grinning at him, “Tell me, Monsieur Pot; do _you_ have anything you’d like to ask me? Any _curiosities_ rattling around in there? _Concerns?_ As your town’s Sheriff, I will oblige, as it is your duty is to protect your little _ville_ here. Knowledge is power and all that, aha-ha!”

The emphasis Hannibal is putting on Stuart being the Sheriff is cutting and palatable. If anything, this just seemed like Hannibal making some kind of petty, spiteful blow at Hewll for annoying him. At the same time, there's a twinge of some selfish kind of satisfaction at being addressed with the title. Knowing that Hannibal was placing him above everyone else in terms of respect and status, right alongside the mayor. That Hannibal was willing to cooperate fully so long as it was with _Sheriff Stuart Pot._

It feels… good…In a guilty way, considering Stuart just stood by while Hewll got chewed out for trying to get some answers. But not guilty enough to quell the arrogant pride swelling in Stuart’s chest.

_He doesn't want to acknowledge that actually…_

Stuart glances at Hewll for guidance, but Hannibal seems to catch onto this. He steps a bit in the way, nonchalantly cutting off their eye contact, all the while smiling innocently.

“Well? Monsieur Sheriff?”

Stuart reaches up to pull the cigarette (which he has thus-far failed to smoke much of) out of his mouth. He puts it out ungraciously against the side of his pants, earning a slight grimace from Hannibal, as he mulls it over. His eyes slide over to town hall, which the steps of was now only a few strides away. He tucks the unfinished cigarette into his pocket.

Questions about why exactly Hannibal was in town early seemed like a slippery subject. If he was going to find out, he’d have to be smart about it, smarter then he was probably capable of. He doesn't want to risk anything. Despite all of his sunny smiles at the moment, Hannibal already seemed to be a bit on edge mood wise ever since Guy had mentioned what the Mayor had said, and now even more so after Hewlett’s attempt at getting an explanation for this whole bizarre situation.

_If he couldn't safely ask about that then…he’d ask an honest question._

“Are you really going to talk to Mayor Albarn? Or is this more of a, u-uh, argument? For him saying the whole thing about how you should be “patient”…?”

As soon as its out of his mouth, Stuart finds himself cringing internally. _Shit that was a little too honest._

Hannibal stares at him for a moment, almost in disbelief, before busting out into that loud, artificial sounding laughter of his. Stuart smiles a little weakly, unsure how to react. Maybe the loon has finally snapped. But Hannibal waves his hand before making it into a fist and tapping it in his palm.

“MY! _Tu es si amusant_! No restraint, genuine, straight to the point!”, Hannibal chuffs, wiping an eye with a finger, “I like that, I like that!”

He looks down at Stuart, large hand moving to clasp his shoulder.

“I intend to have a …ah, what is the right….a _discussion_ , with Damon. Pardon— with _Mayor Albarn._ I am not looking for a fight, Monsieur Pot, rest assured.”

Hannibal smiles sweetly, honey voice back to being as sugary as ever as he gives Stuart’s skinny shoulder a squeeze.

“I am a lover. Not a fighter. I will do my very best to stay civil, I promise.” 

Stuart blinks. _Stay…civil…?,_ he thinks bleakly, suddenly feeling a bit nauseous, _What did that mean…?_

Hannibal is smiling down at him. He retracts his hand, using a finger to trace an “X” slowly over the left side of his broad chest, words practically a purr,

“Cross my heart. Hope to die.”

.

  
.

  
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Stuart comes to a stop beside Hewll outside the large doors of the Mayor’s office. He gnaws at the inside of his cheek, heart pounding in his thin chest.

He hasn't been here since his swearing in ceremony. Since he spoke to father and got the ring from him. Now that he thinks of it, that was the last time he’s seen his dad since…

_God, he feels even more ill now._

Hannibal turns around to face them both, hands clapping together.

“Alright! First lesson for the little lawman today!” , he says, deep voice singsong, “Jamie! Take it away!”

Hewlett breathes out heavily, looking absolutely exasperated at this point, “Right..”

He faces Stuart, pointing to a small metal box affixed to the wall. 

“Okay, kid, listen up. This thing here? This is the weapons box. Anytime someone armed strolls in and decides they wanna have a chit chat with the Mayor, they’ve got to surrender their weapons before enterin’. “

“For safety!” , Hannibal chimes in happily.

Hewlett rolls his eyes. “...Yeah. So its your duty as the Sheriff to take their weapons and put ‘em in here.”

Hewll taps the box with the backs of his knuckles, “After that, you escort the visitor in. You stand by the door and you stay armed. You’re there as Albarn’s security. Following?”

Stuart’s head swims a bit. He looks from the box to Hewlett then over his shoulder to Hannibal, who is waiting patiently and looking a bit too excited to be doing so. He looks back to Hewll and nods.

“Y-yeah. I think I've got it. Take their weapons at the door…put them in the box— b-but keep mine. Go inside. Stand by the exit.”

Hewll nods. He steps out of the way and waves Hannibal forward. The bandit complies, stopping in front of Stuart. Stuart feels his throat tightening again at their proximity, looking down to avoid eye contact as Hewlett steps around the other man to stand beside him.

“Alright. Next, when you're done taking their weapon, you also gotta’ give them a pat down.”

Stuart blanches a little, “P-Pat down?”

“Yeah. Its to make sure they aren't hiding anything you cant see, like another gun or knife or somethin.”

“Criminals can be _verrry_ sneaky!” , Hannibal adds, winking, “For example…” He lifts a hand, passing it over the cuff of his sleeve rolled up at is elbow. He gives a roll of his wrist and Stuart makes a noise of surprise when Hannibal produces a small knife from what seems like thin air. He cant help but stare, reeling.

“H-How…where…?!” , Stuart stammers, eyes huge in both fear and wonder.

Hannibal chuckles, reaching past him to drop the knife in the weapons box, “Lets just say this is why these _“pat downs”_ are important. Hmm, Jamie?”

The older man huffs loudly. “Uh huh. Anyhow, go ahead and take his visible weapons first.”

Stuart nods, looking awkwardly at Hannibal.

“Um…c-can I have your guns n’ stuff please?”

Hannibal clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “ _Mmmm_ …No. Not till you demand it, _mon petit bleuet_. You’re a sheriff, _Oui?_ I am but a humble outlaw. Show me you care about protecting your little mayor in there and _command_ them from me.”

Stuart grits his teeth. This jerk and his stupid condescending way of talking was beginning to get on his nerves. _Everyone was always talking down to him for Pete sake._

“Fine!” , he snaps, forgetting himself, “Give me your weapons already, Hannibal.” He blinks, then recoils a bit, hands drawing up to his chest, voice going up a pitch, “I-I mean... _Mister_...Hannibal.”

Hewlett opens his mouth quick, looking like he’s about to piss himself, but Hannibal waves a hand in dismissal, a courteous smile on his lips.

“…A bit graceless, but certainly a start.” , he says calmly, though Stuart can detect a slight edge to his tone.

Hannibal reaches behind him, and Stuart can hear a few buttons being undone before Hannibal extends his hand forward again. In his grasp is the biggest knife Stuart has ever seen. The blade looks platinum with how shiny it is, and the intricate design etched into it glitters coldly even in the low yellow light of the hall. The grip is made of something Stuart can’t fathom. It kind of like like the odd marbled stuff on his own gun, but this one was soft blues and yellows and even pinks instead an ivory white. Hannibal flips it around in his hand, catching it by the end of its massive blade.

_It had to be bigger then his head…_

The bandit holds it out to him and it takes Stuart a few seconds to register that he’s supposed to be confiscating it.

“T-Thanks..” , he manages to mumble, taking the knife carefully by the handle. He pulls on it to take it away, but Hannibal doesn't let go, his fingers on the blade unbudgingly. Stuart swallows, eyes slowly coming up to meet Hannibal’s gaze, staring into those deep, almost black pits of eyes. There’s something dangerous lurking in there, and Hannibal’s expression is suddenly stiff.

“Next time…Make sure not to forget that _“Mister”_ in front of my name when you address me…Sheriff. For you and I are not on quite so casual terms as of yet.” , he says, voice low. Stuart’s stomach feels like its squirming up into his throat, the wild thrum of his heart so strong that he can feel it pulse in his sweaty palms,

“Don’t forget what I told your mentor Jamie here about speaking out of place…I do not appreciate it. It _irks_ me. Terribly so. Especially when I find myself already succumbing to an increasingly bad mood.”

Hewll steps forward, hand hovering over the gun at his hip, eyes narrowed.

“Hannibal…” , he says warningly, but Hannibal doesn't move. He doesn't even blink.

“Therefore, it will really serve you well to learn now rather then later not to exacerbate my woefully _unpredictable temper.”_

Stuart feels like he's suffocating, like Hannibal is pressing the heel of one of those massive boots of his against his throat. He feels like he can’t even risk blinking, as if the moment he does Hannibal will have this knife back in his hands and be using it to do something…bad. 

Hewlett speaks louder this time, “H-Hannibal…!”

Again, the bandit ignores him and Stuart forces his dry mouth to open. It takes every fiber of his willpower to finally choke out, “Got it.”

As soon as Hannibal moves away, smiling and content far too quickly again, Stuart can feel the air rush back into his lungs.

_Holy shit._

_How many times was this maniac going to jump back and forth like this?! Stuart might have a stroke first at this fucking rate._

Back to being as cooperative and peachy as ever, Hannibal relinquishes his hold on the knife’s blade, and Stuart blinks when he nearly drops it, wrist giving under the full weight. He clears his throat, tightening his grip to steady his hand before turning to drop it into the weapons box with a heavy thunk. Hannibal pulls his dual pistols off his hips and holds those out next, Stuart taking them quietly. His arms drop a little again when he finds they're heavier then expected.

_Jesus, this was so embarrassing,_ he thinks, scowling to himself and avoiding the eyes of the other two as he puts the guns into the box next. A few more throwing knives later, Hannibal puts up his hands.

“That’s everything.” , he says simply, looking to Hewlett, “You may commence your pat down.”

Hewll nods, looking to Stuart,

“Alright, this is how you do it. Watch close and pay attention, I don’t wanna have to do it more then once.”

“Aw…so mean.” , Hannibal pouts, raising his arms up as Hewll goes about running his hands down Hannibal’s sides, “Surely patting me down isn't that bad, now is it? If anything, _I’m_ the one who should feel uncomfortable, having strangers feel me up without even having bought me dinner first.”

Stuart can see Hewll biting back his frustration at Hannibal’s joking, especially when it was so soon after his last little killer mood swing. The older man focuses on checking the bandit for weapons. He kneels and passes his hands down each of Hannibal’s legs, paying particular attention around his boots. Hewll stands and checks Hannibal's arms next, then gives Hannibal’s hips one last pat around the belt before stepping away. He looks at Stuart.

“You get all that?”

Stuart nods.

He doesn't want to get so close, not already, but the sooner he gets this over with the sooner they can move on.

Stuart steels his already frayed nerves and steps forward, lifting his hands cautiously. He glances up at Hannibal, who returns it with a mischievous little grin.

“Do be gentle. I’m ticklish, you know.”

Stuart looks away quickly, feeling his cheeks and ears oddly flare up. He brushes it off and bites the inside of his cheek, reaching out to set his hands on Hannibal’s sides as deftly as he can manage with his trembling fingers. He follows Hewll’s motions as best as he can remember them, making sure to spend extra time scrutinizing Hannibal’s boots when he kneels down to inspect them.

Stuart passes his hands around the ankle straps, and his eyes can’t help but trail down to the unnerving metal plates affixed to the hefty looking footwear. The toes of the plates are curled into sharp points and the heels looked doubly reinforced. He can’t help but wonder why on earth they're like that. Every time he's reminded, it bothers him.

_These things alone probably count as weapons,_ he thinks _, at least they looked like it._ Part of him wants to ask if its for fashion or function, just to satiate his nagging curiosity, but honestly at this point he’d rather not know. _Hewll had seemed to leave them alone so…_

He stands back up, continuing on with Hannibal’s arms. He runs his hands over Hannibal’s upper arm, foregoing his forearm since his sleeves were rolled up anyways, and cant help but notice that no matter which angle he came at it from, he couldn't wrap his hands fully around the man’s bicep. The thing looked like it could nearly fit Stuart’s entire chest inside and he doesn't know whether to be impressed or frightened by that fact. Or maybe a little jealous.

His heart is pounding away in his temples when he inspects Hannibal's belt, Stuart awkwardly reaching around the other man and craning his neck back so his cheek wouldn't end up against his chest. He’s noticing that Hannibal smells oddly like flowers and…maybe cinnamon just as the bandit gives a little clear of his throat. Whether its directed at Stuart or not, he doesn't know, but he flies back, hands shooting to his sides and quickly stepping a safe distance away again.

  
“O-Okay. All done.” , he stammers just as it dawns on him that he could've just…walked around behind Hannibal instead of idiotically wrapping his arms around him like that. His ears burn but neither Hannibal nor Hewll seem to acknowledge his embarrassment, at least out loud.

The bandit gives a little applause, saying “Bravo! _Bon travail!”_ in an overly chipper way that made Stuart want to soak up the praise just as much as it made him want to grind his teeth together.

_It’s fine, it doesn't matter,_ he thinks, _Hannibal just had to talk to the Mayor, probably get paid as much as he could or whatever, and then he’d leave._ And then Stuart would have the proper month to prepare for all of this guy and his antics the next time around.

He feigns a thankful little smile, looking over when Hewll steps past them both to reach for the door. But Hannibal blocks his hand with his own before it can reach the handle. Hewlett looks up at him, obviously confused.

“Uh…?”

“This chat is just for the mayor, myself, and the _sheriff.”_ , Hannibal sighs dramatically, wagging a finger, “So sorry, _mon vieil ami,_ but last time I checked that was Monsieur Pot here. So I kindly request that you wait outside.”

Hewll’s tanned face visibly pales, the older man looking to Stuart, eyes starting to fill with a distress so strong that Stuart can feel his own anxiety kick up.

“B-…But, the kid is new, he—”

Hannibal frowns.

“What do you think this is? An execution? Jamie, please, do relax. It’s just some business chatter, it will be good practice for our little friend here. Learn to stand by the door and be bored out of his mind and whatnot— just like you did when you were sheriff!”

Hewlett looks like he's struggling to control himself, the muscles in his throat visibly tensing. Hannibal tilts his head, eyebrow peaking.

“Unless you do not believe Monsieur Pot is capable of such a mundane responsibility?”

Stuart looks at Hewll, expecting him to of course disagree within an instant. But there’s a slight pause. The briefest hesitation in his eyes when their gazes meet again. And its enough to make Stuart’s blood start to boil.

After the shit show of a swearing in.  
After Paula’s rejection.  
After finding out his parents were liars.  
After having bandits bust into town on his first morning as sheriff.  
After having to find out all this shit about Treasure Trove paying off some group of brutes and thieves just to stay safe from OTHER brutes and thieves.  
After having to put up with this emotionally see-sawing prick for hours.  
After believing that maybe Hewlett was the one person in this whole town who might spare him a _grain_ of respect. 

That second of doubt that flashes across Hewll’s face is the breaking point.

Of course Hewll didn't believe in him. Why would he? Why _should_ he? Stuart was the same stupid guy who had publicly proposed to a girl with a piece of fucking candy. And ran off crying like a child to top it off. All Hewll knew about him was that, and whatever the fuck the people of Treasure Trove have been whispering behind his back all these years. They hardly knew each other at all, and having a cup of coffee in the morning wouldn't change that. _Idiot, he’s an idiot._

They weren't friends. They were hardly acquaintances. Of course Hewlett had been tolerating him, his last job was to teach Stuart how to be sheriff. Its not like he wanted to, like he had much of a choice. So of course he’d grit his teeth and bear it. _How could Stuart be this stupid? This naïve? AGAIN?_

No. He knows why. He was raised to be an oblivious moron, so he could blissfully live in the dark and stay out of the way.

This whole town was rotten— or maybe it was just him. Because of his parents and whatever they did or didn't do to garner so much resentment from the townsfolk. He had been labeled no good before he even had a chance to know about it himself.

Stuart breathes in sharply through his nose.

Now that he thought about it, why did it seem like Hannibal, a seasoned criminal and not to mention an overall pretentious ass, had been the _only one_ to show him a shred of honesty and recognition out of everyone around here? The further he thinks back, even his own fucking family never believed in him either; swaddling him in what was likely false praise and sugarcoating his mistakes so he’d never try. Never get any better or intelligent.

He can’t stand it. Any of it. And it keeps coming back up. Ever since that stupid badge had been pinned to his chest, everything had shattered and fallen apart. The candy coating of ignorance scrubbed away from the pieces to reveal more and more of the raw, ugly truth. It was like a dam had been broken inside his head, and every memory and every emotion tied to them wouldn't stop pouring out of it. Except now they were all twisted and contaminated with suspicion and pain, like dirty water. Every time he thinks about his parents…his wonderful, sweet, always smiling parents…now he can’t stop thinking what if…maybe… they weren't kind at all? And what if they never were? What if every warm hug was just another way to block reality from his view? It…it makes him so angry. _Every thing is making him so fucking angry so easily lately._

_He used to never get angry. . He couldn't remember the last time he even got upset enough to cry before last night. He’s always been so happy, so carefree._

_Was that even a good thing?_

He’s thinking too much. _Why is he thinking so much all the time now?_ Only seconds have passed but the torrent rushing around inside his skull tells him its been a lifetime.

Stuart tunes back in to see Hewll talking, looking as if he’s disagreeing.

_Tch, of course. He saw Stuart’s reaction and now he believes in him. Only because Stuart’s hurt feelings would be an inconvenience to him, probably. Hewll was most likely just afraid Stuart would run off bawling again if he got too upset. Maybe he was right. What a joke. He’s a joke._

Well, he something he _could_ do was stand by a fucking door alone. He didn't need to be shown how. He didn't need guidance or any more babying. He didn't want it. Whatever happened in there, good or bad, he’d face it alone. And he’d learn for himself. _Maybe then he’d earn some respect._

His hands have curled into fists, and Stuart looks up, cutting them both off, “Mister Hannibal, let’s go.”

Hannibal blinks, lashes fluttering in surprise. But in the end he only smiles, gesturing to the door. “Very well. Lead the way, Monsieur Sheriff.”

Stuart doesn't spare a glace at Hewll for his reaction. _He doesn't care about how he feels about this, he could make his own decision. And he would deal with the consequences._

He pauses, knocking twice just for courtesy sake before grabbing the handle of the door and pushing the heavy thing open. He steps aside to let Hannibal in first, Stuart taking a deep breath and strangling down the urge to look back as he follows the other man in and shuts the door behind him.

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The thud of the door closing echoes throughout the large room. Stuart breathes out slowly, taking in his surroundings, his hand lifting to tentatively rest on gun tucked into his belt. He tries hard not to think about the live rounds inside, or the fact he had no idea how to shoot it should the need arise. Or how this room is making him think about his dad. _Or how the last time he saw the mayor was when he made a complete fool of himself in front of everyo— No— he’s got a job to do._ A real and serious responsibility. He needs to be thinking clearly. So instead he focuses hard on the other two men, watching as Hannibal briskly approaches the Mayor’s desk situated in the middle of the room.

There’s an exasperated sigh, Mayor Albarn turning around in his chair, round face red and looking fed up already.

“Listen, Eibenschütz, I already told you loud and clear—” , Albarn starts, only to abruptly choke on his words when he finds Hannibal to be the one standing at his desk.

The bandit gives a little dainty wave of his hand before he crosses his arms behind his back,

“ _Bonjour, Maire Albarn. Comment vas-tu aujourd’hui?”_ , he says sweetly.

Stuart has no idea what he just said, but he cant help but be a bit impressed. _Too bad Hannibal was a criminal or else he’d try and befriend the guy and learn some of that France— …wait— French stuff._

Mayor Albarn, on the other hand, looks none too amused.

“You know I don't get a lick of that baguette speak.” , Albarn huffs, shuffling some of the papers on his desk as he speaks.

Hannibal pulls a face at that, “You know, you could just say “French”, as there are many kinds of bread the people there indulge in. No need to throw out stereotypes.”

Albarn flaps a hand, looking stressed already, “Yeah, right, _so_ sorry to insult the great people of your nation.”

“Actually, I am not French…”

“Good _lord_ , Hannibal, what do you want already?” , Albarn groans, and Stuart cant help but be stunned by how outright rude he’s being. And even more so by how Hannibal’s mood seems to be miraculously unaffected by it somehow.

_There must be history here_ , he thinks, studying the two closely, _It had to be a respect thing. Otherwise he’s sure Hannibal would've choked the guy out by now._

Hannibal tilts his head a little. “What I would like is to have a pleasant conversation,” , he says, chuckling, but Stuart can hear a vague tenseness in it.

Albarn either is deaf to it, or is comfortable enough in their dynamic not to care.

“Then get on with it, Niccals.”

Out of everything, it seems to be the casual drop of his last name that seems to significantly bother the bandit. Hannibal’s hands flex behind him, fingers picking at the empty knife holster strapped to his belt there.

“…You see, my compatriot has informed me you do not have enough money to pay the fee this month. This is true, _Oui?”_

Albarn hesitates for a brief moment, one of his hands coming up to adjust his bow tie. Ultimately, he nods his head in affirmation. Hannibal continues,

“May I ask why the shortage?”

Albarn throws a hand up, scoffing. “Are you kidding me? You’re _half a month_ early! The agreement is to have the money ready for you by the first of every month— and it ain't the first of the month, Hannibal! How am I supposed to stick to the deal if you wont uphold your end and show up when expected?”

Stuart swallows, Albarn’s thoughtless tone of voice causing him secondhand anxiety. He looks to Hannibal quickly, who still seems more or less composed.

“…I understand your position.” , Hannibal responds, eyes calmly closed, “May I enlighten you on my own?”

“Be my guest.” , Albarn says, sitting back in his seat, arms haughtily crossed.

Hannibal uncrosses his arms from behind him, hand going to a pouch on his belt. Stuart tightens his grip on his gun, body tensing as he watches Hannibal unclasp the pouch buckle and then reach inside to pull out a small…something. _A…roll of paper?_ Hannibal sets it on the Mayor’s desk, pushing it forward towards him before returning his arms to their crossed position behind him.

Albarn picks it up. He opens his desk drawer and pulls out a sizable letter opener. He shifts the blade under the ornate ribbon tied around the scroll and cuts it with a swift motion, freeing the paper. 

“What's up with your boss and scrolls, huh? When are they gonna’ wizen up and switch to letters like the rest of the world already?” , Albarn complains, setting the opener down on the desktop and exhaling heavily through his stout nose as he unrolls the thing.

“My employer likes to do things with a bit of _flair_.” , is all Hannibal says, looking faintly amused.

Albarn just grumbles, pulling a pair of glasses out of his breast pocket and putting them on. Stuart watches the man skim his eyes down the page, his expression gradually shifting from annoyed to…what seemed like…fearful. The faint sweat on the mans face is suddenly a lot more noticeable, and his mouth twitches at the corners.

“Is…” , Albarn stammers, small eyes looking up at Hannibal as if the man were suddenly some great predator poised over him, “Is this… _serious?_ Or is this some kind of bad fucking _joke?”_

“Is it s—?” Hannibal echoes, before his voice suddenly breaks off into a laugh, and its as booming and uncomfortable as ever. Albarn flinches at the noise, the distress in his eyes tripling. Hannibal quits his guffawing, hand moving to press over his abdomen.

“ _Ohhhh..Bonte divine!_ You people are so funny today…” , Hannibal sighs, voice a bit dreamy before he collects himself, “Aha. No offense, Damon, truly; but I really do doubt I’d be sent all the way out here just to cause a needless ruckus and hand you a joke. That’d be absurd! If you'd like to hear a joke though, I can tell you one I've been practicing.”

Albarn shakes his head, hand fisting in the scroll, “This—! What’s _absurd_ is this letter—”

“Scroll, Damon.” , Hannibal interrupts, finger raised, “Its a _scroll.”_

“It’s absolute _bullshit,_ is what it is Hannibal!!” , The Mayor snarls, the volume of his voice making Stuart wince even from across the room. He takes the paper in his hands and tears it down the middle and then again and again. Hannibal blinks, eyes a bit wide and looking genuinely shocked.

“Oh my…That was a bit uncalled f—”

“ _Can it, Niccals!_ ” , Albarn hisses, voice trembling with anger, “You can’t just waltz in here whenever you want, demanding whatever you want! We have a deal! The same deal for _twelve fucking years now!!_ And you're going to just bust in here half a month early and give me this shit?!”

Hannibal is silent for a moment, and Stuart can see the air around the man has suddenly shifted dangerously. The bandit clears his throat quietly, and when he speaks its painfully calm,

“…I can imagine you must be feeling quite blindsided at the moment. But please keep in mind, these orders are from my employer. I am not the one who —”

“Tell them to fucking change their mind!”

“I do not have that kind of authority. Now, I realize you are feeling very overwhelmed at the proposal but... could you please lower your voice—”

“I'm feeling _“overwhelmed”?!”_ , Albarn booms, ignoring the other man and only seeming to purposefully yell louder, face going red, “What are you, thick in the head?! This is more then overwhelming, this shit is _insanity!_ I won’t fucking stand for it, and I won’t lower _my fucking voice for you! You hear me?!”_

Stuart looks back and forth between the two wildly, the hairs on the back of his neck feeling as if they were on end. Hannibal doesn't seem much better off— the man’s hand right hand is suddenly fidgeting behind him, blunt thumb nail beginning to dig and pick at the inside of the opposite wrist. Only now, upon inspection, does Stuart notice the thick, gnarled scars gruesomely crisscrossing the skin there. He looks to the other wrist and notices its marred by the same array of raised tissue.

He doesn't exactly understand why, but the sight makes him feel incredibly … _disturbed._

Stuart looks up sharply when Hannibal manages to talk again, a smile on his face, though it was rather obvious that all the yelling was wearing on him.

“……I see. I hear you, Damon.”

Albarn is puffing from all his shouting. He stands up, his chair screeching against the wooden floor. Stuart is nearly holding his breath, wary eyes flickering back and forth between the two men.

Albarn grabs the torn up scroll off his desk as he walks around it. He balls it up in his hands, coming to a stop in front of Hannibal as he crinkles it up loudly.

“ _Good._ We’ve got nothing left to fucking discuss then.” , the Mayor growls.

Hannibal looks down at him kindly, smile still in place.

“Understood. And the fee...?”

“Tell your _bastard_ of a boss that they can wait until the first of the damn month like we all originally agreed on, or they can get nothing at all.”

Hannibal closes his eyes again, smile brightening. “I will relay the message.”

Albarn nods gruffly, sparing a sidelong look to Stuart who just stares back unsurely.

_That was…stressful,_ he thinks, _But it was over now, right?_ Hannibal seemed…okayish. Levelheaded at least. That's all Stuart could hope for.

  
The mayor focuses on Hannibal again.

“Great.” , Albarn takes the balled up scroll in his hands and abruptly shoves it roughly into Hannibal’s chest before letting go, “Now get out of here.”

Hannibal blinks, hands quickly coming up to catch the paper that was just thrust against him. But it falls through his fingers and out of his palms, fluttering down to the floor below. A piece slowly drifts down to land on the sharp steeled toe of his boot, Hannibal’s eyes following it down along it’s way.

Albarn is turning away to head back to his desk.

Stuart is looking at the same shred of paper that Hannibal had watched come to rest on his shoe. He looks up to Hannibal’s face in what feels like slow motion. But Hannibal is staring forward into some imaginary point, his hands still hovering where they had tried to catch the torn up scroll.

And then Stuart sees it.

Those eyes, Darkening. Deeper and deeper. Blacker then tar until the pupil and iris might as well have become one.

Stuart swears it happens in less then a heartbeat;

Hannibal shifting those monstrous eyes to Albarn as he walks away.

Hannibal’s hand seeming to move automatically, without any thought, to the desktop where the letter opener lay.

Him picking it up at the same time he reaches out to grab the Mayor by the back of the collar.

Stuart’s eyes still widening, mouth opening, as Hannibal yanks Albarn back against his chest, hand on his collar shifting to grab the man by the hair. Wrenching his head back at an impossible angle.

Albarn’s eyes, huge, pupils blown wide with fear, swiveling over to lock with Stuart’s own the very instant Hannibal is sinking every inch of the letter opener deep into the Mayor’s neck.

Blood leaps out from around the silver blade, spattering across the desk in a sickening arc of red. Stuart feels like his entire body and mind has gone numb, his eyes unblinking, hand frozen over his gun, mouth open as Hannibal twists the blade.

There’s the horrible sound of metal grinding against what Stuart can only guess are the bones of Albarn’s neck. Hannibal drags it, the muscles in his arm rippling under his sleeve as he forces the opener’s blade through the man’s throat from one side to the other. With every agonizing inch the mayor’s neck opens at a more and more horrific inclination. Crimson is pouring over Hannibal’s fingers in a thick tide, slopping down onto the floor. The blade catches on Albarn’s exposed larynx for a split second before Hannibal forces the blade through it with a disgusting snapping noise.

Stuart feels dizzy. He can't feel his fingers or feet, his eyes trained blearily on the Mayors face, which had now gone slack in death, eyes rolled up into their sockets and mouth unnaturally agape.

The blade slashes through the other side of the man’s neck, Albarn’s body crumpling as it falls down. Its still connected to the head by some fleshy sinews, Hannibal holding it up by the hair. The bandit isn't making even a single ghost of an expression until he throws the thing down onto the bloody floor. He tosses the opener down alongside it, the thing sliding through the slop a few feet.

Hannibal breathes deeply, in and out, lifting a hand to wipe the red sprayed across his sharp cheek with the back of his wrist. It clashes with his pale green skin, some red droplets clinging to his hair. His flat, black eyes staring down at the mess at his feet.

Just as he thinks its over, Hannibal suddenly makes a booming noise of rage through his teeth; Stuart flinching back against the door when the giant man lifts a leg up high to bring his boot down hard on Albarn’s head. There’s an ear splitting crack of the skull underneath, Stuart feeling his legs beginning to shake as Hannibal does it again. And again. And again, again, again.

Stuart cant stop looking. He can’t breathe as he realizes exactly what those metal plates on Hannibal’s shoes were used for. The steel makes quick work of snapping and shattering the bone, the pointed toe breaking through as if it were tissue paper when coupled with Hannibal’s insane strength.

Hannibal is breathing through his bared teeth, gore splattered across his pristine clothes. There's a particular thick rope of brain and blood that catches Hannibal across the face. The man doesn't even blink, he just keeps bringing his foot down until what was Albarn’s head is reduced to a clumpy, meaty paste.

Stuart manages to shut his mouth, looking down at his own shoes to see tiny speckles of blood dotting the toes and the hem of his left pant leg.

For some reason, that’s what does it. Stuart convulses, clutching his stomach as he turns and doubles over to vomit.

Black spots pop in front of his eyes, the floor is rolling underneath him in waves. He can’t feel his face, but he can feel the cold sweat coating his forehead and cheeks.

There’s a voice speaking to him, but he can only hear it faintly as it drifts in and out over the ringing in his ears.

“—…Monsieur Pot? …— you quite alright?…”

_This…this wasn't happening. It couldn't be real._

“…—my apologies …lost my temper…— ”

_He’s never seen anyone die. He’s never even known anyone who’s died. And now he just saw…the inside of someone’s…_

“—…don’t look well…Let me help…—”

Stuart stares down at the floor as it twists beneath him. He’s only vaguely aware that Hannibal is near him, arms coming around him.

_He’s going to die,_ he thinks wildly, heart fluttering _, He’s going to die next._

His eyes numbly swivel up to look up at Hannibal who’s stooped over him, red painted hands holding Stuart's shoulders

_He looks……concerned_ , he thinks hazily, those big eyes back to normal and no longer two dimensional in depth. Instead Hannibal is peering down at him, eyebrows tilted worriedly, the other man looking as if he were genuinely troubled, despite all the…b-blood all over his face.

“That’s…kinda funny…” , Stuart slurs, reaching out aimlessly, a moment before his knees give out and he finds himself tumbling into the black depths of unconsciousness.

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End file.
